


The Afton Family

by CannibalCupid



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Child Abuse, Child Murder, Depression, Don't let the small description fool you, Drama, Drinking, Fluff, Guilt, I Tried, I can't promise I'll finish it guys, I love FitzAfton and I don't know why, I mean why wouldn't you hate Will as a person?, I'll add more characters when they actually appear, It gets a lot more adult as it goes on, Look I get everyone has their own interpretations but I am SICK of sexyman William, M/M, Michael's got anger issues, Mikebro, Misunderstandings, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, The Crying Child's name is Christopher because I like it, Trauma, You're probably really going to hate William, hehe, lots of headcanons, slow story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 96,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24524167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CannibalCupid/pseuds/CannibalCupid
Summary: William Afton brings his youngest two children into work today.
Relationships: Michael Afton/Jeremy Fitzgerald
Comments: 282
Kudos: 411





	1. A Girl who wanted an Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello AO3! I'm excited to finally have an account. This story is basically how I believe the main story went down. There will be many headcanons, however (like, Jeremy's entire identity is my headcanon). So, if you don't agree with them, then that's completely fine! I'd honestly love to hear what headcanon's and/or theories you have (just please be respectful). Anyways, please enjoy the story! Also, one more thing, I actually started writing this about a month ago. I posted it to FanFiction.net first, so that's why there's four chapters in one day.

Christopher Afton gripped his golden, stuffed bear tightly to his chest as he opened the door to get out of the car, hastily following his father and sister through the wide parking lot. He couldn't help but shiver from the cool, winter breeze. Since it wasn't snowing, he'd expected it to be warmer, so the boy had made the mistake of not bringing a jacket.

"Don't fall behind, Christopher," his father told him calmly, without even turning his head to look.

"Y-yes, Father," the boy mumbled. Chris was pretty short, so he had a habit of falling behind his family - especially in crowded areas. One time, he and his family had gone to a carnival, and while on their way to the Ferris wheel, the small child had lost the others in the sea of taller people. He spent hours endlessly crying behind a hot dog stand before they found him. Michael had made fun of him a lot for that.

A soft, but excited British voice paused his memory movie.

"Isn't it exciting that Daddy's bringing us with him to work?" his older sister, Elizabeth asked.

Chris gave a small smile, "Yeah, I guess it is." He wouldn't say he was excited per say, but more relieved if anything. Usually, when Father went to work, his older brother, Michael, would be in charge of babysitting them. Michael's idea of 'babysitting' however, was either locking Chris in his room or chasing his sobbing brother throughout the house with his Foxy mask on until Chris could find a space small enough where Michael couldn't get to him. But since his elder sibling was at a tutoring session, and Father had a meeting he couldn't miss, Chris and Elizabeth had been allowed to tag along (with much begging from his sister).

"Well, I know it is." Liz stated proudly, bearing her brother no mind.

Chris's only response was a shrug.

The two continued to follow their father up to a wide building that had colorful letters surrounded by fake balloons and sprinkles reading, "CIRCUS BABY'S PIZZA WORLD!" Chris could smell the greasy pepperoni and birthday cake before stepping up to the slide door, the sound of soft, pop-like music reaching his ears as well.

Now the boy couldn't exactly explain it, but something made him immediately stop in his tracks. A... strange feeling... and that feeling abruptly grew in his chest, crawling to every part of him, like a weed sucking all sense of safety. He stared up at the letters again. A sudden chill ran down his spine. He clutched his plush bear even closer to him, nearly flattening it. Little flies of thought buzzed around in his head; why did he feel this way? Hadn't he thought of the restaurant as a safe place just mere moments ago? What was there to be afraid of? Why did his stomach feel-

"Christopher!"

The brown-headed boy snapped out of his trance as if a gun had been fired. His eyes met cold, dark blue spheres that were glaring at him with a silent disapproval.

"S-sorry, F-F-Father!" Chris squeaked. All fear of the restaurant vanished in an instant, being replaced with the dread of his father's anger as he scurried inside up to him and a frowning Liz.

The purple-suited man continued to stare at his son when he caught up to them, his silent gaze striking more terror in him than any lecture could. Tears were just about ready to spill over his eyes.

Then, as if finally sensing his son's hostility, the older man gave a thin smile, "Just remember not to fall behind, Chris. You don't want to lose me, do you?"

The boy in question shook his head.

"Good, now be more like Elizabeth, and follow," he said while turning back on his way, heading inside the establishment (the comment also earned a smug smile from his sister).

Now that Chris was more calmed down, he took the opportunity to digest the whole setting of the restaurant while he followed his family at every turn. The best he could describe the place was that it was like Fredbear's but...flashier. The narrow, checkerboard floored hallway almost seemed like a whole other world compared to the multicolored lights and upbeat music that blared from each open party room. Laughing little kids ran in and out in what seemed like flashes. Some even had party hats or pizza sauce and cake crumbs smeared on their face and hands (to Chris's unpleasantness).

The boy didn't like it. Sure Fredbear's Diner was usually packed pretty decently, but he ironically found the other party place, where he went to have fun, _calmer_ than this circus (so the name was fitting). Fredbears also never gave him a headache, which again made him clutch his plush bear for comfort out of reflex.

Liz seemed to think the complete opposite, however. The ginger-haired girl flipped her head back and forth so fast that Chris was worried she'd get a neck cramp. Her bright, green eyes lit up in excitement whenever she looked into a room, seeming amazed by the bright lights. She was even singing along to some of the songs.

He then looked up at his father to his right, curious about what he thought of the place. From what he knew, Father had mostly spent time as Fredbear's, only now coming here recently, as he just opened it.

Most of the time, his face was as stoic as ever, his cold, dark blue eyes looking forward with what seemed like the concentration of a machine with one goal that it was going to complete.

However...that concentration, that drivenness, seemed to break every so often. He never stopped walking, so at first, Chris was confused by the expression. But he then quickly noticed that whenever his eyes landed on a child of any kind, his face twisted into something else. A look of disgust mixed with a cruel fascination, like staring at a vulture tearing into a dead rodent. It was repulsing, but you couldn't look away. It came and went so fast that the boy almost thought he was imagining it.

Chris looked down, slightly shaking his head at himself. He was being weird just staring at his father like that. He owned part of Fredbear's, so he'd have to like children... but then why did he look so-

"DADDY, DADDY, DADDY!"

Chris jumped, nearly flying out of his shoes. He whipped his head to a room on the right, only to find his sister jumping for joy in the doorway. Her red bow moved up and down with her fiery hair, while high pitched, chipmunk-like squeals continued to emit from her throat.

"Elizabeth!"

Uh, oh. The small boy glanced at Father, whose dark eyebrows were creased with anger, his lips turned into an annoyed frown, and fists slightly clenched.

Liz turned back around, and as usual, did not at all seem fazed by their father's temper (and his frustration with her never lasted long anyway). She was grinning ear to ear with the biggest smile Chris had ever seen on her, her many dimples clearly showing on those round, rosy cheeks. She then ran from the doorway up to their father in a flash, vigorously tugging at his dark, plum-colored sleeve.

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" she cried again while one of her small hands pointed towards the inside of the other room, "It's her! It's my robot doll, Daddy! She's here! Why didn't you tell me?!"

Elizabeth was screaming so many different things that Chris lost track of what she was saying, but the one thing that caught his attention was 'robot doll.' He knew his father made robots and many animatronics, but had he really built one _just_ for Liz? Why hadn't he ever known? Surely his spoiled sister would've been bragging to Chris about it over the hills.

Then again... he wouldn't put it past her to keep her mouth shut about it, then decide to show it off when he saw it for the first time to get the 'surprise factor.' Or maybe the thing just wasn't as fancy as the other stuff his dad had given her, so she'd forgotten about it until now, sparking this new excitement.

Curious of what the cause of Liz to burst like a shaken can of soda was, Chris walked past his babbling sister and father, who was busy trying (and failing) to calm her down. Once by the doorway, he then peered into the party room.

His jaw dropped. There, about twenty feet away on a small, round stage, was the _biggest_ animatronic he'd ever seen, standing at what looked to be more than seven feet tall. Heck, it wasn't even an animal - it was completely humanoid.

To start from the bottom, it wore bright, pointed red jester shoes with golden bells on the tips. For clothes, it had on a matching red skirt and tank top as well, and a strange, metallic fan located on the orange spot of its stomach. And its face...oh it's face! The large, long-lashed, baby blue eyes looked like they could rip Chris's soul out right then and there. It was also stuck with an uncanny, permanent smile that held many small baby-like teeth under a Rudolph nose. He was sure it could never change its expression. A rose-colored spot was located on each cheek, standing out like a splash of blood against its white, metal skin. The robot was finally completed with a microphone in its left hand and two red pigtails for hair.

It stood there on the confetti-filled stage, singing all kinds of girly songs to the children in the party room while shaking back and forth in a way a robot would dance.

Chris hated it. He hated it more than anything. The animatronics at Fredbear's were animals, so it gave them more freedom to look less 'real.' This robot clown, however, was trying so hard to look human, that it appeared wrong in so many ways.

The boy was clutching his stuffed bear so hard, his knuckles were starting to turn white. He couldn't stand to look at that thing any longer, so he turned away from the robot's showroom, and back to his (still arguing) sister and father.

"Daddy, she can make balloons!" Liz exclaimed with a smile, "Have you seen her make balloons? I know she can also-"

_**"ELIZABETH AFTON."** _

Liz finally stopped talking, her mouth snapping shut while also letting go of his sleeve. She looked up at her father with something Chris had never seen in her eyes when she was with him. Fear.

There was a long moment of silence. Father's face was a tomato red, his breathing heavy, almost looking like he'd run the hardest in his life. The small boy could feel the eyes of curious children, who were no longer running room to room on them, peeping from the party and game rooms, wanting to know what the shouting was all about.

Father then took a slow, deep breath, clearly trying to calm down. Once his face was back to its usual pale hue, he knelt down to Liz's level, meeting her face, then spoke in such a low voice that Chris had to step a bit closer to hear.

"Elizabeth Mary Afton. You are not to go near her in any circumstance. Do I make myself clear?"

Liz sniffled back what looked like tears, "B-but Daddy... why wouldn't you let me go play with her? You let the other children go see her."

He sighed, "Elizabeth, this is not something we're going to-"

"Afton, my friend! We've been waiting for you for more than ten minutes now!"

Startled, Chris turned his head to look at the source of the new voice. Several feet away, but walking towards the trio, was a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man who wore a big, flashy, almost artificial smile on his face.

"Mr. Fischbach." Father greeted blankly, quickly standing up while straightening his suit and tie.

Huh. So this was Mr. Fischbach, the supposed CEO of Fazbear Entertainment. Chris had overheard Father mention him before (though it always involved many naughty words).

Mr. Fischbach however, extended his arms in a friendly way, like they were great buddies about to hug, "My friend, as I said, we've been waiting for over ten minutes. Please, tell me, what is it that's so important?"

"Nothing, Mr. Fischbach," he answered stiffly, "I'm ready for the meeting."

"Excellent!" the CEO proclaimed (a bit too happily) while slapping his hand on Father's shoulder, "Let's go, then. Best to not keep them waiting, right? " he said with a wink, like it was some sort of inside joke.

There was a brief pause for a split second, as Father seemed to stare at his superior with the slightest hint of ...anger? No...hatred? Maybe, but Chris was sure it was a descriptive feeling of a word that was too big for him to know (he was only eight after all).

Father eventually gave a single nod. Just like before though, the strange look passed over his face so fast that you could've missed it if you blinked. Something in Chris's head told him that it was wrong and bad, but he immediately pushed the thought out of his head. Nothing was wrong. And even though he didn't know much about jobs and that sort of stuff, he bet it was normal for people to hate their bosses. He heard adults complain all the time about work.

Without exchanging words, the two businessmen then started to stride towards two wide, black double doors at the end of the hallway. But before Father could take more than three steps, a small, soft hand gripped his sleeve. Liz.

Chris's stomach turned into mishmash. Father's already icy stare turned to look straight into Liz's large, sad, green eyes.

"Daddy, just once let me go play with her," she begged in a final pitiful attempt, "she's so pretty and shiny. Didn't you make her just for me?"

" _Elizabeth._ " Father hissed in a dangerous whisper.

"Oh, Daddy," she pleaded anyways, nearly sobbing, "let me go to her."

Father opened his mouth as if to say something, but the voice of an impatient Mr. Fischbach called out "Afton!" before he could get a word out.

Immediately, Father snatched his wrist from Elizabeth's grip as if it were a viper trying to bite him. Not bothering to make any more eye contact, he straightened his tie, then pointed a finger at Chris, his blue eyes meeting Chris's green.

The gesture instantly made the boy's blood freeze and squeeze his plushy as he started to shake like a leaf on the verge of falling off a tree. What had he done wrong?

"You make sure she does not go in there," Father ordered bluntly, leaving no room for argument. And before what Father had just told Chris could fully don on him, the dark, violet suited man promptly followed Mr. Fischbach into the meeting room without saying another word.

The atmosphere returned to normal as soon as he left. Kids immediately laughed again while chasing after one another, as if nothing happened now that the gloomy adults were gone. It was like a switch had been flipped from quiet to crazy on them, with Chris and Elizabeth being the only quiet ones, silently standing in the hallway as hyper energized kids constantly ran past the siblings.

Chris hardly noticed them though. He felt too dumbfounded by what Father had just told him. Had he really just told him he was in charge? Or had he imagined it? The boy had never been in charge of anything, not even himself, so had Father really just put _him_ in charge of his older sister?

Chris could feel his breath becoming more shaky, his anxieties increasing with that thought. How could he do this? It took a lot for Liz to listen to Father (or any adult for that matter), so why would she even bother with him? And what was so horrible about that (already creepy) animatronic that Father wouldn't allow his beloved daughter to go near? And why, why, _why_ had he entrusted-

"Daddy isn't watching." his sister stated plainly out of the blue.

"H-huh?"

"He isn't here," she said again, this time smirking, "so what's keeping me from going to finally see her?"

"W-wait! No! You c-can't!" he stuttered, rushing in front of her.

She raised an eyebrow while placing her hands on her hips, "And who says I can't?"

"M-m-me!" he squealed trying to sound tough like Mikey, but ended up more so like a startled mouse, "Father s-said so!"

She rolled her eyes as if it was an unfunny joke, "Come on, Chris." She then made an effort to try and charge past him, but Chris again stepped in front of her.

He shook his head almost apologetically, "No, Liz. I-I just...I won't let you..."

Chris didn't really know why he was so keen on being a guard dog to his sister; he couldn't recall any time when he'd ever really commanded her to do something. Maybe it was because Father had ordered him to do so, so like a machine, he automatically felt obligated. Maybe it was just how freaky the clown thing looked, making him not want the sister he loved to go anywhere near it. Or maybe...maybe it was just the bad feeling that was continually swirling back and forth in his stomach ever since he saw the place. But whatever the case, he didn't want to risk anything bad from happening, so... yeah.

Liz studied him with hard eyes for a moment, like she was trying to evaluate whether or not Chris was actually serious (he also couldn't help but notice how similar her expression was to their father's).

Seeing that Chris (to her surprise) wouldn't budge, Liz seemed to try and change tactics. The red-haired girl let out a small sniff. And then another. Her pink lips then started to quiver - and before Chris knew it, Liz was full-on crying; fat, moist tears rolled down her round cheeks, hitting the tiled floor with a small _plat._

 _Don't fall for it, don't fall for it_ , Chris told himself repeatedly. He had seen the little sorceress perform this witchcraft on her teacher, Miss Grayson, and the principal plenty of times. She would get in trouble for name-calling, hair pulling, or whatever - be called to the office, and with a few simple tears and heartbroken words, they'd be put under her spell, sending her home with nothing but a warning that Father would hardly pay any mind.

So Chris continued to stand his ground, feeling determined to win their standoff.

Liz again let out a sad sniff. He knew what was coming.

"Chris, p-please," she hiccuped, "she was made ju-just f-for me... she's my friend... would you want to be separated from a friend? ...Or me?"

Chris took another shaky breath, not breaking eye contact. He'd been expecting that... trying to make him feel guilty. But even though he'd known it was coming, the questions still played with his mind like a cat before eating a mouse, because he knew the answer - no, he wouldn't want any of those things. He wouldn't want to be separated from the soft, plush friends he had in his room, or the golden bear and rabbit he used to visit nearly every day, so...was it really fair to keep Liz from seeing a friend made specifically for her? So then maybe...maybe it wouldn't do much harm to...

_You make sure she does not go in there._

"Chris?"

"No, Liz," he told her plainly, making up his mind. His usual nervousness was suddenly being replaced with something different...was this what they called courage? Bravery? Surety? He wasn't sure, but he knew one thing - he liked it. He almost thrived in how it felt, so he continued, his voice sounding stronger.

"I-I know you really want to see her, and I can understand why," he reasoned, "but...if Father doesn't want you to, then-"

"Move it, Dip!

**_SMACK!_ **

Before Chris knew it, something struck him from behind, and he was suddenly lying face down on the floor, his head throbbing, with his favorite Fredbear plush thrown out of his arms.

The boy lay there for moment, stunned, reflexive tears already threatening to spill from his eyes, while hardly being able to process what had just happened. It was only when he heard the sound of familiar black shoes, quickly running past him with a _click, click_ \- that caused him to jolt upward, spitting out hair that had gotten in his mouth from the floor and ignoring the taste of blood enveloping on his tongue.

He swiveled his head to his back, only to see (to his terror) Elizabeth speedily heading towards the room. Her friend's room.

"No!" the boy cried, forgetting about all the fresh pain enveloping in both his face and joints as he sprung upward, scurrying after his disobedient sister (not even bothering to go back for his favorite Fredbear Friend plush).

"Liz, _no_!" he called again, desperately trying to dodge past other kids, followed by many "Hey's!" and "Watch it's!" that he paid no mind to. He could just make out that bright, red bow that stuck out like a stain against the many children, hurriedly continuing on its way.

But by the time Chris's eyes fully landed on his whole sister again, she'd just stepped into the forbidden room.

" _LIZ, NO!_ " he screeched at the top of his lungs. Screaming harder than he'd ever had in his life. Running harder than he'd ever had in his life. He could see her. He was so close! Maybe he could make it. Maybe he could-

_**Slam!** _

A large, wooden door that he didn't even know was there suddenly bashed in his face, causing even more agonizing-like pain to his already aching head. But even so, he hardly noticed it, because he had failed.

"No..." he whispered to himself in disbelief, "No, no, no! Liz!"

_Pound, pound, pound!_

He continued to bang on the door and pull on the handle until his fists couldn't take it anymore, and he was practically gasping for air.

"No.." he let out in a pathetic whimper. Just as he was about to give up hope, his eyes caught a narrow, rectangular window right above his eyes. In a last-ditch attempt to stop his sister, he stood on his tippy toes and strained his neck, so he was just able to make out Liz at the end of the room. Right in front of the robot clown.

"Liz... please... don't!" he called out in hard gasps. He knew deep down his attempt was in vain. Liz was too far down in the room to hear him (and she probably wouldn't care anyway), so all he could do was stand there in that uncomfortable position and watch.

Nothing exactly bad looked to be happening. The robot's baby blue eyes were now locked on his sister, who (Chris guessed) was talking to the giant thing. Probably telling it how much she loved her and-

_WhRrrR... wHRrRRrrrr..._

The sound was more muffled because of the door, but he could hear it. The robot's whole body suddenly started to shake, which caused Chris's heart to jump into his throat, and Liz to take a few startled steps back.

"Liz!" he yelled again, now that he'd caught his breath, he started back up his door banging while juggling keeping his eyes on her all at the same time.

His stubborn sister actually turned her head slightly towards him, and what he could make out of her eyes looked... apologetic mixed with...a little fear? She definitely looked nervous with the robot twitching around like that.

Just as Chris thought she was going to fully turn around, come back, and forget about the creepy thing (and if he was pushing his luck, apologize for leaving him), the robot stopped moving, and to his dread, Liz hesitantly turned back to it. She just stood there, seeming to wait to see what it would do.

Chris held his breath.

The small, orange piece located on the center of its stomach then opened, and out came a... a... a scoop of vanilla ice cream? Was he seeing right? Chris squinted. Yeah, he was. A cone with a pure, white swirl of what looked like the most perfect vanilla ice cream he'd ever seen. It even had a plump, red cherry on top...

The boy could feel his heart finally start to slow down. So... the robot really didn't seem dangerous at all. He knew Liz must've been overjoyed at the gift since she immediately skipped back to her present, bow bobbing and all. His sister even grabbed hold of the desert from the small, claw that held it. Chris let out a sigh of relief when she happily took-

_**SNAP!** _

A claw.

A scream.

Gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, if you made it to the end, then thanks for checking it out and reading the first chapter! I'd always, always love to get feedback on what you did and didn't like. Anyways, have a great day!


	2. Snap, Snap, my Sister's Trapped

The first thing he did was scream. _Hard._

He fell to the ground, flailing violently while a waterfall fell from his face, creating a lake on the floor that he continually splashed in. Blood he didn't even know was there before, dripped from his nose.

Employees finally rushed out of the rooms, demanding what was wrong.

He couldn't hear them, he couldn't think.

_Snap._

No one dared to touch him, a crowd gathered like it was a gruesome murder that nobody wanted to contaminate.

She was gone. Taken. _Eaten._

It ate her.

_Snap._

A purple-suited man then burst through the crowd, speechless by the scene his child was displaying... until he quickly noticed who was missing.

He asked him where she was.

_Snap._

Sobbing.

The crowd muttered.

He asked him again.

_Snap._

Screeching. Thrashing.

In a swift motion, the man held both of his son's wrists and ankles together, immobilizing the hysterical child.

He asked him one final time, piercing blue eyes staring into his soul, his voice turning the boy's body into stone.

A pause.

Then, a whisper, so soft, only his father was able to hear it.

_"Eaten."_

_Snap._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, this one was much shorter, huh? Did that make it more impactful? That was kinda what I was going for. Let me know (if you wanna of course).


	3. Enter Michael Afton

So apparently, Chris had a freak out _so bad,_ that people thought he was having a freaking seizure, so he'd been sent to the hospital. But besides many bruises and a bloody nose, he'd been fine.

This was the kind of thing Michael Afton would usually make fun of his wimpy younger brother for, because Chris made it _so_ easy. Chris was nervous? Crying. Chris wasn't having fun? Whining. Chris saw anything that his big, baby brain could twist into something that he thought would hurt him? Full on _tantrum._

Just a few months ago, Michael had been forced to take his younger brother to see the Dark Crystal (which honestly felt like a fever dream) on a Saturday night, when _he_ wanted to see Alone in the Dark with his friends. Long story short, Chris completely _flipped out_ when one of the dumb-ass puppets started to look like it was on crack from a rock, hollering so _freaking_ loud, that you couldn't hear anything in the theater.

"It's not real, idiot." he had told him to make him stop.

It didn't work.

And because Michael had failed to calm the brat down, he had no choice but to leave the theater in embarrassment (though he didn't let it show on his face) with his crybaby brother slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes all the way home. Father (and Mum, but she dipped) was the only one who could calm Chris down. And after the boy had been sent to bed, _Michael_ was the one who'd been yelled at thirty minutes straight for not "tending to the needs of his sensitive little brother."

Yeah, sure. It wasn't like Michael was the one who had to walk the brat to and from school everyday. It wasn't like Michael was the one who actually cooked meals every now and then for his siblings ever since Mum left (no way he was going to do it for the them everyday). And it _definitely_ wasn't like his disappointment of a son to keep the twerp from getting run over by a truck when he nearly zipped across the road because he thought he saw a "Skeksis" on their way to school.

And since "Best-Dad-Ever" was always at work or in his basement or whatever, Michael was expected to play Mum for his two younger siblings (again, ever since she left). Well, there was only so much the thirteen year old would do.

But for one second of his life, none of those feelings mattered.

He was at his math tutoring session when the tutor's phone rang down the beige hall (Father had made him do it, and wasn't like he was bad at math, he just thought it was pointless).

"It's for you, Mike. Your dad." his tutor, Marco told him after answering it.

He left the desk and notes (that were really mostly doodles) as soon as he heard those words, thankful for once that his father was interrupting something in his life.

That relief was gone a soon as Father told him what had happened at work.

First, Christopher was in the hospital. Ok, that made him a bit worried, but father quickly assured him _why_ he was in the hospital, and Michael couldn't help but scoff. He knew the baby could throw a good tantrum, but _really_? Throwing one in their father's crappy Fredbear's spin-off? Honestly, why was he surprised?

"Michael." his father said, bringing him out of his thoughts.

"Yeah, what? When will the little man be home?" the teenager asked while rolling his eyes. "And what about Liz? Where's she?"

There was a pause. Father seemed to take a deep breath.

"Dad?"

"Michael... she..." his confident, matter-of-fact voice was more hesitant than usual, which definitely set off alarm bells in the teen's head.

"Yeah?"

"She's gone Michael." he stated, going back to that stoic tone, telling his son the news like he was ripping off a band-aid. Trying to get the pain over with quickly. "Missing. We don't know where she went, but Chris most likely saw a..."

Michael stopped listening after that, his father's words being lost as if they were in an actual hurricane. The only thing that had registered in his brain was "she's gone."

She left.

He'd been abandoned again.

Everything around the teen seemed to vanish, his world becoming dark and cold, despite the fact that anyone else would've described it as a "warm, sunny day for winter."

The first thought he had was _why?_ Why would she leave? Sure, they had a pretty crappy dad, but he was only like that to Michael, not really Chris, and _definitely_ not to his precious Elizabeth. So why would she just abandon them? Unless she was-

"Michael!"

The voice of his strict father snapped Mike out of his thoughts.

"What?!" he snapped back, fuming "What the Hell do you mean she's gone? The Hell happened?" A small part of him hated how weak he sounded. How badly his hand was shaking as he held the phone. And _especially_ the way Marco was staring at him.

 _Piss off,_ he mouthed to him, returning his attention to his father's voice as soon as the nerd ran off.

"Well?" he spat.

He knew his father must've sighed, because there was another pause.

"Michael, as I was at a meeting I couldn't miss today, the incompetent employees lost Elizabeth." he explained, "She ran into a party room and disappeared-"

"How?" Mike hissed, "How the Hell did she vanish in a freakin' bare, party room?"

"There's a small, emergency exit behind the stage curtain."

"Oh," he laughed mockingly "so you think she just up and left? Maybe went hitch hikin'? Partyin' with her pals? Or maybe she just decided that you- "

" _Michael._ "

It was just his name, but the way Father said it made the teen swallow down every vile insult he wanted to spit at his deadbeat dad. Damn it. He was being an idiot by letting his anger get the better of him. And even though he hardly cared or was unaware when he did, right now was an exception, because his sister, who was missing, was what was important.

"Sorry," he grumbled, "go on."

His father continued "The most likely situation was that Elizabeth was kidnapped." he confirmed like a cop giving a police report, "And like I said before, Chris probably saw a kidnapping, but is too traumatized to talk about it."

Ok, _that_ pissed Michael off. While that smaller side of him knew that an eight year old seeing his sister get kidnapped would probably mess them up, the more impatient part of him said _screw that_ , because if the cry baby didn't give specifics, then whoever took her would get away!

"Well then, you better make the damn brat talk," he growled, forgetting his filter "or else our assess are never going to find her and-"

 _"Michael. James. Afton."_ if a black, freezing cave in the middle of Antarctica could have a voice, this would be it. Michael shut his trap and internally cursed himself for continually being a freaking dumb-ass. "You do not _ever_ call your brother that. _Ever._ Do you think this is the time to be sarcastic? Or _funny?"_

Deep breaths.

"No." he then mumbled. Michael knew he was sarcastic as Hell, but no way he was trying to get a laugh out of his old man.

"Excuse me?"

"No, _sir._ " Gosh, he was sick of this. It took all of Michael's concentration to keep himself under control, feeling like a pop can that Father was continually shaking, until he burst, sprayed all over him, and was thrown in the trash. His fists ached with the urge to punch something.

"Listen Michael," Father sighed, definitely done with his son's crap, "you've wasted my time enough. Usually, I'd deal with you for your stupidity, but right now, I have a daughter who's missing and a son in the hospital. I only called because I wanted you to know that this is what happens when you let your priorities get _so low,_ that you're unable to help your family."

Michael opened his mouth to argue, but Father kept going, as if reading his mind.

"And before you say I'm not there enough, I'm the one who gets the paycheck to feed _you._ This is _your fault._ When I can't be at home, you are always to keep your eye on Chris one hundred percent of the time. _No compromises._ Someone has to feed this family, and you need to learn responsibility. I suggest you finish this tutoring session because it'll be your last one."

_Click_

Michael just stood there with the phone still up to his ear. The ringtone echoed throughout his head as if it was hollow cave. Hell, his whole body felt hollow.

"Uh, Michael?" Marco suddenly appeared, his head peeking from around the hall's corner. "Are you-"

_**WHAM!** _

The teen slammed the phone down so hard on the wall-jack that he felt a slight _cRaaAcKk_ , as well as causing his now ex-tutor to jump back in fear - but he didn't care. Without a moment of hesitation, Michael then stormed past an alarmed Marco (who backed against the wall as if the teen was a tiger he was hoping wouldn't notice him), shoved his things into his bag, then slammed the door behind him without saying another word.

Michael hopped on his red, rusted bike that he'd ridden there. He pedaled as hard as he could past angry car drivers and startled pedestrians to their lone house on the top of a small hill. His hands were slightly sore and bright red from gripping the handles so hard. But even so, as soon as he was home, he proceeded to grab his favorite baseball bat with nails hammered in, and animalistically smash their old mailbox until it was nothing but a pile of indistinguishable, metal rubble that he buried later that evening.


	4. A Talk Between Father and Son

Chris layed in the small hospital bed of Hurricane Hospital. The place smelt like ten different cleaners mixed into one, causing his now blood-free, cleaned-out nose to feel a minor burning sensation with every breath, as well as the complete whiteness of the room, combined with a white light, managed to aggravate his already sore eyes. Yet the white bed he rested in felt like an almost soothing cloud on his aching joints, which balanced the many unpleasantnesses out. He could also hear the curtains fluttering every now and then from the slight breeze outside. But other than that and his own breathing, the room was completely silent. The doctors had finally left him to himself to discuss the testing with Father.

The once hysterical child was now completely sober. Anyone probably wouldn't believe that this was the kid that had displayed such a horrific scene in the middle of a pizzeria just a few hours earlier. Because right now, the boy was just... staring... Staring at nothing. Completely lost in his fuzzy mind - _that_ memory playing before him over and over again, like a broken VHS player that he was eternally cursed to never look away from.

_Snap_

_Scream_

_Snap_

_Scream_

Chris wanted to keep crying. He wanted to keep screaming at the top of his lungs; however, for the first time, it seemed like he had actually run out of tears. He was just _so_ tired now. The doctors had to hold him down in order to put a needle in his arm so he'd pass out. When he woke up, Chris's eyes were still red and puffy, giving them an undead look, as well as an ugly, blue-berried colored bruise that nearly covered his entire forehead. He'd woken up with pretty much zero energy, his throat practically a raw piece of meat now from screaming so much, and his entire body had just ached _so incredibly_ badly. He wished he had a plush friend to hug. His arms felt so bare and lonely.

_Snap_

_Scream_

The weak boy squeezed his eyes shut. But more than anything, he wished - he _prayed_ that this day was just a terrible, terrible nightmare. That he'd wake up in the morning in his bed, with Michael in a good enough mood to make waffles, and the best of all, Liz would be there on the carpet, and as usual, playing with her favorite dolls (and sometimes a G.I. Joe Chris had let her have) on the living room carpet before the three of them headed to school. Then he'd tell them all about the horrific nightmare he had, and Michael would laugh at him for his stupid, dumb baby dream, while his sister (who was alive and well) scolded him how it was a horrible thing to even dream about.

The thought felt so real it almost made Chris smile.

He opened his eyes.

He was still in the hospital room.

He would've cried another flood if there was still water left in the dam, so instead, he turned on his side and hugged himself while sniffling. Why? Why did the clown do it? Why did the thing Liz insisted was her friend, the special present Father made for her... _eat her_? Take her away from him? He had seen it do it. It had happened so fast - the claw, the _snap_ \- that if you averted your eyes for one second, you would've missed it. So to anyone who so much as _blinked_ , Liz would've just disappeared into thin air.

But Chris saw it. He never let his eyes leave his sister for one second when she was in that room. _So. He. Saw. It. Happen._ And it wouldn't leave his mind.

The sudden sound of a doorknob turning made Chris sit up in his bed, his heartbeat increasing. Was it doctors? Back to stick another needle in him? Or more tests? He watched the door open in anticipation, and saw that it was _Father_ who entered the room, still in his purple suit, his hair messier than usual, and was plastered with an unreadable expression. He closed the door, walked over, with his son watching in silence. He proceeded to take a seat on the brown, leather chair to his left, then ask, "How are you feeling, son?"

The boy's only response was a blank, puffy-eyed stare.

_Snap_

_Why?_

"Christopher, I asked you a question," he said again, this time with an edge to his voice.

_Snap._

Why was the robot bad? Father made many robots, but they were always the kind kids could play with, or even hug, whether it was the size of a person or a doll. They didn't offer them ice cream, then trick someone like that... betray them... eat them. Devour innocent children as if they were an ice cream so delicious, they had to inhale them in one gluttonous gulp... but... then again... if the clown did... would they-

 _"Christopher."_ before the boy knew it, Father was squeezing his arm tightly, staring icicles spears into his soul.

While the Chris from yesterday would've immediately started to stutter a pathetic apology from even daring to ignore his father so uncaringly, the Chris today, who constantly had _snap_ played before him, just... didn't feel anything from the gesture. Nothing his father did at that moment fazed him in the slightest. It was like a dark, grey cloud of nothing but sadness and confusion was raining over the boy. So like before, he continued to stare at Father with absolutely nothing in his eyes.

After what felt like way too long, the man sighed, letting go of his son's arm, seeming to finally realize how out-of-it the boy was. His usual force wasn't going to work right now, even if he went as far as to start beating words out of him. So what he needed to do, was say the right thing to make him talk.

"Listen, Chris," his father sighed, "the police are going to be here soon to question you, and before they arrive, you need to tell me _exactly_ what happened."

This somewhat snapped the boy out of his lifeless state, sparking interest. It was true that he hadn't told father what he actually saw, just a vague "eaten."

A beautiful blossom of hope suddenly sprouted into his mind.

But maybe...maybe it wasn't too late! Father made the despicable clown bot (his mind continued to push out the very thought that his father purposefully meant for it to do something so horrible), so maybe he could get her out! And... and the robot was able to make ice cream, so it wasn't like she would starve... and who knows? Maybe she could breathe off the helium. It had some of the same stuff as... as... what was it called... oxygen, right? Yes... _Yes_... this could _work_. Elizabeth could be saved. She'd be fine! _She had to._

"F...Father... I-" he tried to start, but just ended up getting trapped in a coughing fit. Gosh, his throat hurt _so bad_.

Father quickly handed him the untouched glass of water on the counter to his right. Chris gratefully accepted it, and at first, just took a couple of small sips, but soon found himself practically absorbing the water into his system in just a few gulps. The fresh, cool liquid replenished his throat like a desert in need of an oasis. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. Without thinking, he held the glass out to Father, who proceeded to pour him two more cups of the delicious drink, that Chris consumed just as fast.

"Are you ready to tell me now?" he asked, trying to sound patient and understanding, but his eyes were quickly going back and forth between his son and the window, looking to see if the police had arrived yet.

Chris nodded. Despite the tight knot in his stomach and his head wanting to scream again, he managed to push away most of his nervousness. If Liz was going to be saved from a robotic prison, he _had_ to tell him.

He took a deep breath, looking down at his hands, "I'm s-so sorry...a kid pushed me t-to the floor..." his voice was still weak, but it no longer felt like a cat was continually dragging a claw through his vocal cords, so he kept retelling the horrific memory, "sh-she... she ran into the room... th-the one you told her - told _me_ to... to not let her go into..." The boy couldn't help but pause, glancing at his father to see how he was reacting so far - wondering how angry he was for reminding him that he was the one to let her get away.

To his surprise, the man's face was a block of ice-cool and completely frozen while waiting in a hard anticipation for Chris's story.

But apparently, the boy's tear tank had been filled back up, because his eyes were already starting to become moist again from having to retell the surreal memory. So taking a small gulp, and hugging his knees in an attempt to calm himself down, he continued.

"Then Liz l-locked the d-d-door before I could stop her... I... I tried to s-stop her - I-I-I promise! I h-hit th-the door, and-d begged for her t-to... to st-st-stop!"

Fresh tears were now pouring out of Chris's face, practically soaking the sheets before he had a chance to prepare. The liquid burned his still bloated eyes, causing him to constantly try to blink away the pain. And while he continued to stutter out an explanation, his father continued to listen with an impossible to decipher face.

"Then she...*sniff*...sh-she went up to the... the..."

 _The monster,_ he wanted to say. _The evil clown. The thing that lied to Liz, making her think they were friends._

"Th-the robot..." he settled with forcing out, "it stopped and ju-just stared at h-h-her... then it... it st-started m-making a weird noise... and th-then, an..." he swallowed, "an i-ice cream... an ice cream came out of it..." even as a naive child, Chris was able to realize just how ridiculous it was saying that a robot clown somehow creating ice cream inside of itself sounded, now that he was saying it out loud.

Father, however, now looked similar to the way his teacher listened to a student sob out the story of how her dog died; solemn and (a bit surprisingly) understanding, so Chris kept going with it, barely keeping it together.

"She...sh-she g-grabbed it... the ice cream...b-but th-then... *hic*... then..." the pathetic boy let out a miserable sob into his hands, not being able to finish his sentence. It was like he was there again, having to watch the terrible, terrible thing all over again.

_Snap._

Chris was a coward. He'd just promised himself that he'd be strong when telling his father what he saw... so Liz would be saved... but it was like the boy was their old, static radio that would constantly fuzz in and out songs or talk shows, hardly making any sense - and something you wouldn't ever want to listen to. So why would Father even bother with him? Why would he-

Something warm and somewhat gentle suddenly placed itself on the miserable's boy's back, rubbing it gently in a circular motion. Slightly spooked, Chris whipped his head up, only to see that it was Father who was massaging his back, those blue eyes looking down were now sad, sapphire pools, as he seemed to suck in quick, shallow breaths.

Was his father...was Father _sad?_ In front of him? Father... Father had never been _sad_ before... disappointed, sure and sometimes even a bit dispirited - like the time Chris had overheard Father ranting to his friend, about how Mr. Fischbach wanted them, "to break away from the goldies and to move on to new characters." While it had certainly hit him in a somewhat personal spot, he never let that side of him show to his family. It was always like showing sadness was somehow his biggest secret that he had to keep locked away in a chest.

So Chris didn't know what to say with his usually uptight Father sitting there, looking genuinely heartbroken, while trying his best to rub his son's back in his own tenderful way (which was a bit stiff and robotic).

"I know Chris... I know," he then reassured while still rubbing his back, sounding actually sympathetic (another thing he wasn't used to).

The boy sniffed, a bit confused, "You... you do?"

He nodded in a somewhat sober way, "Yes... a boy your age should never have to see his sister get..." he took a deep breath, taking his hand off his son's back, while seeming to struggle in getting the words out. "See... his beloved sister get kidnapped."

Well, he supposed it would-

Wait.

_What?_

Chris blinked, totally lost. What... what did he mean kidnapped? That wasn't what he saw... He hadn't even finished the story... but then again... the boy hadn't clarified _exactly_ what happened to his sister, so... so Father must've just jumped to conclusions... and he guessed in a way, Elizabeth was "technically" kidnapped... Yes. That was it. Father would still know what to do as soon as he knew the whole truth.

So Chris politely shook his head, "No... no Father... I'm sorry, but that's - that's not it... the clown, it-"

"No Christopher," Father interrupted, putting his hand on the stuttering boy's shoulder, and giving it a slight _squeeze_ , "that _is_ what happened." The sadness he'd just displayed had somehow completely evaporated, solidifying into his consistently stone-hard expression, but... was in some way _so_ much more terrifying... he couldn't explain it...

_Those cold, dark eyes..._

Alarm bells immediately blared in Chris's head. "No..." he tried in a half-whisper, "Sh-she... I saw...she was trapped b-by the ro-"

"By the kidnapper," his father interrupted again, staring at the boy with unmoving, glassy spheres. Not a single muscle twitched with doubt. "The person you saw take her... the culprit... I believe he had brown hair... right?"

This wasn't making any sense.

"No..." he managed to insist again, now slightly trembling at the abrupt change in tone.

"Yes." the man confirmed, putting the tiniest bit of more pressure on his son's shoulder. "The criminal you saw had brown, slightly long hair, and what you think was a mustache," he explained as if he was reciting a play description for a character. "You weren't able to see the color of his eyes because he was wearing glasses... but I'm sure you can't remember every detail, so you don't recall the color of his shirt... or his pants... just the face."

_Snap._

No... oh no. What his father was doing suddenly hit Chris like a sack of bricks from a ten-story tower. And the question of the day remained - why? Why did Father want him to lie? Wait... no... no, maybe... maybe Chris was just being stupid again... jumping to conclusions too fast... there had to be a good explanation for why Father was doing this... there _had_ to be.

"Your mind was playing tricks again Christopher," Father soothed as if reading his mind. And what seemed like to be because of the flip of a switch, now looked sympathetic again (but his hand remained just as firm on his shoulder). "I assure you son, with everything I believe, that is _exactly_ who you saw. You saw your sister happily playing with - with her animatronic..." it was hard to catch, but it almost seemed like it was almost painful for him to spit it out, but he kept going. "Then the man behind the kidnapping jumped out of the curtain. Immediately, he started dragging Elizabeth, but was muffling her mouth with his hand, so she couldn't scream. And that's why you broke down - because it happened so fast." the man concluded.

_Snap._

Chris was speechless. His previous "blossom of hope" had just been burned to ashes, and blown right into his face as a form of mockery. His mouth hung open, but no noise could come out. Father had just told him a completely different version of what happened. His own version. But... but it didn't at all seem like he'd just thought of the rewritten events at the top of his head. It sounded planned. Rehearsed. When had he thought of all this?

"Christopher," Father goaded, staring at his son with the concentration of a lion watching its prey, "that is what you saw. I swear to you. I promise on my life, that the robot didn't - _couldn't_ do anything to harm your sister. You know I'd never in a million years build something to hurt her."

Yes... yes, he did know that... for... for sure...

Didn't he?

Chris was about to say something, but the faint sound of a noise outside - a _weeeeoooo_ caught his ears. Police sirens. The cops had arrived. In the Hellish situation, he'd completely forgotten that they were coming.

Father seemed to hear it too, because he suddenly gripped both of Chris's shoulders, causing the boy's heart to skip a beat. He would've jumped in surprise, were it not for how hard father was clenching his shoulders, as if he was afraid his weak son would try to run away at any given moment.

"Is that what you're going to tell the authorities?" he suddenly grilled him, like it was the biggest, most important question of Chris's life.

The bewildered boy blinked rapidly, his eyes looking at everything except his Father, "I-I..." he started to stutter, "uh-uh-I..."

 _"Christopher William Afton_. Is that what you will tell them?"

It was just a name. His name. It was just a question. And a rather simple one at that. That's all it was. Just a question to answer honestly.

But the way Father said it - no, _demanded_ it, reset everything in the boy's system, like - like he was one of his father's robots. In that terrifying second, he forgot about everything. He forgot about Liz. He forgot about Michael. The snap. The truth. What was right. Because in that one _grueling_ second, all that mattered, was what his father wanted of him.

"Yes, sir."

He studied Chris for a few seconds, but it seemed like hours, trying to deduce whether or not if his son meant it.

At last, Father took his hands off the boy's shoulder, immediately looking ten times less intense. He folded his arms, leaning back in the leather chair. How was this man able to put on different masks so fast, yet so effortlessly?

"You're doing the right thing, Chris."

Chris hardly heard him. He simply sat there like he was in another world, somehow feeling even more hollow and empty than before.

Then as if on cue, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in!" Father permitted.

The door opened, and in came two men. The first one was pretty tall with about shoulder-length hair and stubble, while the other was both shorter in height and hair.

Father stood up and walked over to the two, shaking Taller's hand, "Thank you for coming, detectives."

Shorter nodded, "It's our pleasure, Mr. Afton. I'm Detective Ford, and this my partner, Agent Hamill." he explained, gesturing to himself and Taller.

Hamill let go of Father's hand, "Is this Christopher?" he asked, looking at the boy in question.

Father nodded.

Ford stayed where he was while Hamill walked over and sat it the chair Father had just stood up from, peering at the boy with a soft expression he wasn't used to seeing. "Hi, Christopher. I heard you just saw something pretty terrible." the detective's partner said it very forward and straight-to-the-point, but he sounded so much like he genuinely cared and wanted to help "If you don't mind," he continued, "I'd like to ask you some questions about what you saw earlier today. Is that alright?"

"He doesn't mind," Father answered before Chris could, causing Hamill to turn toward him with a look of disapproval on his face.

"Hey, let the kid speak for himself." Chris looked up in surprise, only to see that it was Agent Ford who'd snapped back, both frowning and slightly glaring at Father while folding his arms.

The purple-suited man immediately spun on his heels to face the detective. While Chris couldn't see his face, he was sure that his father was steaming like a boiling pot of water for being interrupted by some random guy. To be honest, he thought Father was going to start arguing, but he seemed to decide against it, since he took a deep breath, and begrudgingly nodded.

"You're right," he admitted flatly.

Hamill then turned his attention back to the nervous boy, looking at him with sincere eyes, "Can you please answer my questions, Christopher?" he asked gently, "The sooner we know, the sooner we'll be able to find your sister."

 _No you won't,_ he thought.

_Snap._

There was a brief moment -an entire split second that went by so fast that no one would be able to notice - where Chris considered spilling out the entire truth like a jumbled can of alphabet soup before his father was able to stop him. Liz was trapped. Trapped inside a monster with no way of escape... but this was his father. He loved Elizabeth more than anyone... if he didn't want Chris to tell the detectives the truth, surely, _surely_ it must be because that was the best thing to do... why would they ever believe a clearly out-of-it, and probably delusional child that told them his sister was trapped in a robot because of ice cream anyways

And just to add to his anxiety, those cold, dark eyes flashed in his mind, instantly giving him over a hundred reasons of what he would do, and why he'd do it.

So even with a badly quivering lip, and his heart flying over a hundred miles per second, the boy managed to meet the detective's face with his eyes full of endless tears, and say, "I s-saw... I saw a man take her... h-he covered her m-mouth...i-it happened so f-fast... h-he had d-dark hair with... I think he had glasses..."

Chris continued to answer Ford's questions, but only in quick stutters (which he was sure actually made it more believable), while sticking to Father's script, who speaking of, was silent through it all, (no matter how much his son hesitated when certain questions were asked) looking down at the ground with his arm's crossed, and occasionally even looking surprised at Chris's unoriginal responses, as if it was the first time he was hearing it.

The boy didn't know how to feel about that.

He also didn't know how long the detectives were there for, asking him questions, but they eventually did leave, giving their thanks and condolences. After a few minutes of silence between the two, Father went and stood by his son, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"I'm proud of you," he told him.

Chris's only response was the silent tears that dripped down his cheeks.


	5. Michael's (many) Issues

After school on Friday, Michael biked his usual three miles past the rundown supermarket and ancient library (that mostly just had news articles and copies of crap from at least the 1700s) where the grass and people quickly disappeared, being replaced with the never-ending, bare land, and long-dead weeds that stuck out of every crack (which made him glad that his old bike was a mountain bike).

The ride was much more tedious than usual since it was now the middle of February, which meant there was constantly a cold wind that stung his toes and bit at his nose, causing unavoidable snot to drip down. There were also pale, grey clouds that covered the sky like a wet blanket in need of washing, making the setting around him look much more monochrome, while little gnats of snow from the bleak blanket dusted the teen's brown head of hair.

~~But despite his irritation and anger, he couldn't help but continually glance around the neighborhood, for bright, ginger locks.~~

Though eventually, his destination came into view - the town junkyard.

The area wasn't exactly what anyone else called _ideal_ \- but that's what made it a perfect hangout for he and his friends. There was no one to bother them. No whiny siblings or stuck up adults. It was filled with nothing but old, dirty, broken cars sitting on the dry ground of dry-as-Hell Utah. Cars that would never drive again. Cars that people gave up on as soon as it did something wrong. That they never bothered to fix because it'd be too much effort, so they just got a new one and forgot about the dumb, old car, like it was nothing.

Michael thought it was stupid he related to a car more than any actual person.

The teen used one arm to zip-up the rest of his worn, brown hand-me-down coat from his father, as he rode up to his destination, riding past the sign reading, _**A Junkyard in a Hurricane** _(haha, so clever), and a just as obvious **KEEP OUT** sign right next to it that had been graffitied over with a red X.

And just a few meters away, standing in the middle of the trash-heap with their own bikes parked together, were his three friends, all in their distinct winter get-up. They each stopped whatever conversation they were having to turn their heads at the approaching Michael.

They all looked pretty annoyed once he rode up to them.

"Mike, you're late." Jeremy Fitzgerald stated pointedly as the teen got off his bike. "We've been sitting here, freezing our asses off."

"Shut up, Fitzgerald." he snapped back haughtily to the tall, skinny teen while shuffling up to the group.

"Woah, watch out guys!" Thomas Telford laughed, raising his hands in front of his chest as if to protect himself, "Britain's in a worse mood than usual! You all better watch out, before he starts an apocalypse!"

"Fuckin' _bite me_." he shot back, then glared at the ground. The clearly pissed off Michael was definitely not in the mood (if ever) for the dumb-ass nickname his dumb-ass friend gave him because of his accent.

Thomas shrugged, mumbling "Whatever man," then proceeded to lean against the windowless, blue Ford behind him with his hands on his head.

The dark girl between the two boys, Marianne Pax, simply rolled her eyes at his fowl attitude, "Holy crap Mike, chill. Just tell us why you're almost thirty-five minutes late... and also why you're so pissy."

The teen's head shot up from that last statement, his cheeks turned nearly as red as his already clogged nose. His entire face started to feel warm despite the cold atmosphere. The expression earned a small chuckle from Jeremy, and more obnoxiously, a smug-ass, cat-like victorious smirk from Tommy.

Not wanting his embarrassment to keep being displayed to his only friends who had a front-row seat, the teen folded his arms and casually shrugged. And while doing so, popped a stick of gum he always kept in his coat pocket, into his mouth, trying to make it look like he didn't have a care in the world, "I just had to wait a long-ass time for the little man to get back from the hospital when I got home from school. That's all."

That actually earned a rare, silent response. His friends would make fun of pretty much anything and anyone, but it seemed for a moment, even a kid in the hospital was too lowbrow for them. Or maybe they were just surprised. He wasn't sure.

But as expected, it was short-lived because of Tommy.

"Oh, yeah!" he thoughtlessly exclaimed, snapping his finger, "I think I saw something about that on the news this morning! But they weren't really talking about your brother... wait, is it true you really weren't there when -- OW!"

Marianne swiftly sport-kicked the copper-skinned boy hard in the shin with her pointed, black boot before he could finish his sentence. Michael bet it hurt pretty bad. Marianne played soccer (oh, sorry, _football,_ because he's from the U.K.).

"What the Hell was that for?!" Tommy demanded, now rubbing his left leg while scowling at the girl, who honestly looked like she could care less about his pain.

"For being a dumbass," she stated with her arms crossed like it was a common fact.

Tommy's only response were many offensive, not-so-subtle curses under his breath.

Michael couldn't help but give a little grin. Damn, this girl knew how to yank a smile at him in practically any given moment.

Ignoring Tommy's cussing, she turned her attention back to the British teen, "So why was the little baby in the hospital?" she asked, while also twisting a dark, chocolate-colored, perfect curl of her frizzy hair with a soft-looking finger... In a weird way, it relaxed him just a tiny bit. He couldn't help but notice that her long fingernails were painted a ruby red, which went like a ripened cherry against her cocoa-colored-

"Mike!"

"Wha-?" Michael was snatched out of his daydreaming by Jeremy, and by the look on both his and Marianne's face, Michael could tell he'd been staring for way too long.

"What the Hell are you looking at?" he spat back, diving right back into his pool of easy anger.

Jeremy opened his mouth as if to say something, but realizing he didn't want the skinny teen to point out the (probably creepy) staring, or further showoff his embarrassment, Michael hurriedly explained himself.

"Yeah... Prissy Chrissy threw a huge-ass tantrum at a pizzeria... because he..." Damn it, how was he supposed to say it without it being awkward? "...Hesawmysistergetkidnapped..."

Silence.

The irritable teen still made a point to beam lasers at each of them, in order to send the message that he _did not want any questions asked_... which they seemed to get pretty quickly since they continued to wait for him to keep going. Once Michael was satisfied, he continued, "but he finally cried out who he saw did it... lots of police are involved... so they'll find her."

He'd been telling himself that on repeat ever since he finished trashing their crappy, old mailbox, putting up walls in his head to block out any doubt.

_This is your fault._

It wasn't. Because she'd come home.

Jeremy then spoke up, again breaking Michael out of his thoughts, "Well man, why don't we go do something fun to get your mind off this crap?"

"Oh, Hell yeah!" Tommy agreed immediately (Michael wasn't surprised that this made him completely get over being kicked). He then pointed to a black backpack by the bike pile, grinning mischievously, "I brought some spray paint, duck tape," he revealed while counting each one off on a finger, "old cheese, spoiled milk-"

"We get it. You brought stuff for pranks." Marianne interrupted (landing a glare from Tommy), "Anyways," she moved on, turning her attention back to Mike, "do you feel like doing anything, Michael?"

Wait, him?

"Yeah," Jeremy agreed, "you choose."

The entire group then stared at the Afton expectantly, waiting to see what he'd say.

It was something that Michael wasn't at all used to. Ever since he started being friends with them, one of the three others were the one to come up with pranks or just fun hangouts; like last spring when a thunderstorm hit, Thomas had convinced them to drop water balloons filled with slimy mud, from a four-story renovated building, onto pedestrians walking down Main Street. Or the time Marianne stole a key to her parent's mall, so the friends had snuck in at night, slid around through the sleek floor in their socks, played most of the arcade games, and at the end of it all, Marianne had let them each take home two souvenirs. Jeremy had even once taught them how to take tires off of cars at the junkyard, so when the school staff was at a meeting, the teens had swiftly managed to take off the tires of (what they considered to be) the worst employee's cars.

They were all pretty fun, but the thing about those pranks, was that the group never got caught. At least, there was no proof it was them. They had dropped the water balloons from the renovated building high up while wearing masks, so they hadn't been identified. Once they were done having their fun at the mall, they'd burned the security tape. And when they had removed the tires, they'd hidden them behind bushes then fled out-of-sight.

So while Michael definitely had a blast doing that stuff, all in all, he was still inexperienced when it came to coming up with good ones himself. And a long story short, the one time he had tried to orchestrate a prank, it had ended up with some paper airplane in a kid's eye (he was fine, and overreacted if you're that concerned), and many hours of detention. All of that was nearly half a year ago, but they still hadn't bothered to ask Mike what idea he has for a prank. Until now, where apparently he'd won some kind of rare sympathy from them.

But the worst part? Even though this was the perfect moment to impress his high-standard friends, the British teen suddenly realized he didn't even really _want_ to do anything fun - because he still felt freaking _angry._ Ever since the conversation with his father from just yesterday, his hands had ached with an eager urge to just _break_ something. And even after he'd smashed their rusty, piece-of-crap mailbox to practically nothing, he still felt fresh, hot rage - like gooey, flaming hot cookies that had just come out of the oven.

And because that emotion was still a burning oven baking his brain, he couldn't help but blurt out what he desperately wanted to do.

"Destroy stuff with my own bare hands."

Tommy took no time to scoff. "Well, you got plenty of crap-cars here you can Hulk Smash." he pointed out mockingly, gesturing to the entire area around the teens.

"No," Michael said instantly. He knew it'd be stupid to say he didn't want to destroy a car because he related to it in a weird way, so opted in saying, "I don't have my bat, so how the Hell will I destroy a bloody car with just my hands?"

The copper-skinned teen rolled his eyes, groaning, "Ugh, come on guys. He clearly doesn't want to do anything that's actually worth our time."

Then what felt like a blow to Michael's heart, Marianne sighed, "Yeah, I don't know Mike. Why don't we just go-"

"Hold up." Jeremy suddenly said. The whole group turned to look at him.

"Yeah, what?" Marianne asked, looking pretty annoyed at being interrupted.

"W-well," he began, now (for some reason) seeming a bit nervous with them all looking at him, "w-what if w-we went... we went to..."

Damn it, he was getting flashbacks to Chris. Michael couldn't stand stuttering. And it wasn't even like Jeremy to stutter. "Just spit it out."

The blond teen blushed, gathering himself, "Right, sorry." he took a deep breath, "Ok, so a few months ago when I was bored, I decided to explore past the junkyard, and a few miles south, there's this really, and I mean _really_ old house."

Michael opened his mouth to say something, but damn Tommy beat him to it.

"What?" he questioned in disbelief, "Just an old-ass house in the literal middle of nowhere?"

Fitzgerald shrugged, "Yeah, pretty much. I think it used to be a farm since there's an old, rundown building that looks like a barn right next to it, and also fencing for animal pens. Oh, and some-"

"Holy crap, just get to the point." Michael groaned. He was getting really tired just standing around looking like a bunch of hobos in a junkyard with nothing better to do.

"Yeah, why would we go to a gross, old house?" Marianne added.

"Because it still has a bunch of old furniture, dishes, and stuff like that."

That lit up Michael's interest. He was finally picking up on where Jeremy was going with this.

"So you're saying-"

"Wait, wait, wait," damn Tommy interrupted _again_ (Michael growled, being just a few words away from kicking him in a place that would hurt way more than the shin), "You want us to ride up to an old house in the dead of winter just to go break stuff?"

"Well, I mean - I thought we were gonna let Michael choose," Jeremy defended.

 _"We didn't agree to that..._ " Tommy argued under his breath, but Jeremy didn't seem to hear him.

"And he just said himself he wanted to break some crap... so why not? Besides, I could just show you two around." he offered, shrugging.

Looking about as thrilled as having to take a final exam, and turning towards him, Marianne sighed, "Well, what do you think, Michael? You wanna do it?"

The teen then realized he'd hadn't really said anything since Jeremy suggested the idea (because of damn Tommy). And while his hands definitely still felt an unbreakable eagerness to smash something to pieces, as if he'd been waiting hours to get on his favorite rollercoaster ride, he couldn't help but notice how convenient the suggestion seemed. A question he couldn't ignore was starting to irritably itch at the back of his head.

"Why didn't you tell us about the place as soon as you discovered it?" he asked, ignoring Marianne's question.

"Hey, yeah!" joined in Tommy, "Why the Hell didn't you? Don't 'cha ya think we would've wanted to know about it?"

Marianne didn't say anything, but she looked curious as well.

"Oh, um..." Jeremy flushed, "well... no, not really. I mean, like you guys said, it was an old as dirt house in the middle of nowhere," he shrugged, for like, the fifth time, while fidgeting with his hands, "it's a bit farther than here, so it really didn't seem all that useful... until now..."

Even though Michael didn't think Jeremy was telling the whole truth, he was honestly just so bored and tired of this conversation, that he no longer cared. He just wanted to ride over, check it out, and shatter the most fragile crap there was, so he could blow off the steam that was continually building in his body like a teapot. He honestly felt like he was mere seconds away from screaming _screw it_ to the damn cars, grab whatever was closest to him, and start demolishing the first object in front of him.

_This is your fault._

Damn it.

"Yeah," Michael then grunted, clenching his fists out of habit to restrain himself, "let's go over."

Tommy gave another scoff, "Wait, seriously Mike? You actually want to bike to an abandoned house and waste time in the middle of nowhere?" he challenged, looking baffled.

_Do you think this is the time to be sarcastic? Or funny?_

Michael's patience cracked.

"Do I fucking sound like I'm telling a _damn joke to you?!"_ the angry boy snarled back, staring at the damn bastard with a glare that would've melted steel.

Tommy's trap snapped shut, and all of them went silent, actually looking kinda freaked out, from what they saw, as an out of nowhere outburst. Michael knew, that they knew, that he'd always had a temper similar to a wasp - but even so, he'd never looked like this. Obviously so restless to just hit something - _anything,_ as if it was some sort of wild hunger from an animal.

Michael took a deep breath, shoving his hands into his worn coat pockets, while not meeting any of their fearful eyes.

"If you guys don't want to go, fine. I'll just go over by myself, break some stuff, and come back once I've cooled off. I see why you don't want to be around me, and _that's fine._ " He had to force those last words out. Damn it. He may have screwed up again, but he'd not let it show how it got to him. Freaking Hell, why did he always-

"Wait what?! No!" Jeremy blurted all of a sudden, almost sounding offended.

The other three turned to now stare at him, taken aback. Heck, Jeremy himself seemed surprised by his outburst, his cheeks somehow turning redder.

The flushed teen took a hard swallow. "I-I mean... look man, _we_ definitely want to hang out with you... you're just... acting angrier than usual..." he mumbled out that last part.

"Holy crap, I fucking' _know_ ," Michael hissed. "That's why I want to break shit!" Why was it so hard to understand?

Jeremy nodded, "Right, and that's why I suggested it. So let's just go now, alright guys?" He said, looking at both Tommy and Marianne specifically.

The dark-skinned girl seemed to think about it, then sighed in defeat, "Fine, whatever. If it'll make Mike less pissy." (Damn it, Michael could feel himself blushing again).

Tommy, the only one who hadn't agreed, studied both Marianne and Jeremy as if trying to find out if they were really serious about this. Then seeming to finally see that he was outnumbered, he shook his head, and murmured out, "Alright, fine. Let's just go and get it over with."

That was all he wanted to hear.

"Freakin' finally" Michael groaned, already heading towards his bike. The others followed, hopping onto their (much nicer and shinier) bikes. Though before Jeremy could ride off, Michael grabbed his arm. The slim teen whipped around sharply, looking like something undead had just tried to snag it off.

"Geez, dude," Michael muttered, taking his hand off him. He was a bit startled by how freakin' quickly the skinny teen reacted. Why the Hell was Jeremy acting so weird?

"What?" Jeremy asked, "Don't you wanna go?"

"Hell yeah, I just..." Michael looked at the ground, shrugging, "just... I appreciate it... you know, the suggestion... so thanks."

Jeremy raised his blond eyebrows, his jaw hanging slightly open as if doing a double-take on what he just said. What the Hell? Wasn't it obvious?

"What the Hell is that face for?" he demanded, feeling strangely weirded out by it.

The damn bastard then had the nerve to give just a small smirk and shrug. "Oh, nothing," he reassured (which just confused Michael even more)

But before the puzzled teen could argue, Jeremy kicked his brake up, and hurriedly pedaled to the front of the group to lead the way.

And not wanting to waste any more of the misery called time, the teen let out a large sigh, then promptly rode off to catch up to his friends, with winter, not the only thing feeling bitter.

* * *

Well, just about everything Jeremy said about the house was right, the main being that it was definitely ancient. It looked similar to a picture of a home he'd seen in his history class from the 1800s, or more excitedly, the place you'd see out of a horror movie where the dead people would live (though Michael definitely didn't believe in that bull crap).

Even in his sour mood, the teen could imagine the two-story house being pretty spiffy in its heyday. It looked like it used to be a clean, polished out white with shiny windows and a nice porch. But the entire outside now had so many different cracks and splotches, that it appeared to be more of a sickly lead grey (and the lighting from the clouds certainly didn't help). And though the building was decently wide, with four windows (two of which were completely shattered) on each level, most of the shutters were either not there, or dangling down by a thread.

Michael looked up more, only to find a black, pointed roof that was missing many of its tiles, as well as a red-brick chimney on the right, which seemed to have some sort of large, bird nest on it. And just a few meters to the left of the house was, like Jeremy said, seemed to be what was left of an old barn, proving to somehow be in an even worse condition than the house. Most of the red paint was completely chipped away, and also what was left of large, wooden pens for who-knows-what kind of animals.

Apart of Michael still couldn't believe someone had tried to have a farm right here. He definitely wasn't the person to ask about Utah's history, but he knew the state had been dry, dry, and dry ever since it'd been founded. Well, whatever - maybe there'd just been a kind of rare wet season, like some places in Africa, causing the folks to believe they'd found something good. Apparently not.

Jeremy continued to lead the way when the group arrived, instructing them to each enter the house one at a time, and not stand too close together since the fragile floorboard could give out.

Michael followed after Jeremy on the worn, rickety-as-all-Hell front porch that _creeeaaakkkeed_ out a long moan with every step. Still, he entered the shack without a second thought.

Michael shoved his popsicalized hands back into his pockets to warm them up, chewing hard on now tasteless gum. Damn it. He was cold and couldn't stand to analyze this wasteland of a building anymore. He came here to let off steam, not examine every nook and cranny like some kind of historian. Besides Jeremy had suggested the place so he'd feel better.

"I'm checking out the kitchen," he told them, not leaving much room to argue.

"Oh, alright. I'll just be showing Marianne and Tommy the place" Jeremy responded, sounding... disappointed? Why? Ugh, whatever. There was no reason he should be.

So he promptly ignored the tour Jeremy was trying to give the others, as well as the old-ass, tacky furniture sitting in what seemed to be the living-room to the right of the center stairs. The teen marched left, into what was definitely the kitchen and dining room, where he was sure the most fragile stuff would be.

The only thing Michael processed was how vacant the room was. All that he noticed was a splintered table missing a leg, a broken window, a bare, dusty counter, and up above were some dingy, old cabinets - wait, cabinets? Yes, that's what he'd been looking for!

Michael smirked. His impatient hands seemed to thaw themselves out from excitement, screaming at him to let them get a hold of whatever was in them. The eager teen went as fast as he could across the cracked floor, making sure to not do it hard enough where his foot would burst through the wood.

As soon as he was close enough, he swung open the first cabinet that was in his reach, (causing it to completely tear off, but he didn't notice), revealing (to his glee) dusty, dirty, glass white plates. Plates and bowls that no once in their right minds would want to ever eat off of. But to Michael, they were glowing, white saviors for his relief, begging him to transfer his anger to them.

With slightly trembling hands, and standing on his tip-toes, the craving teen picked up as many of the glass plates as he could. He carried them all in both of his arms like a librarian holding a stack of books, (ironically making sure not to drop them) out the door (he assumed his friends went up the stairs since they were no longer on the first floor), feeling like a little boy on Easter carrying a huge basket of candy eggs to thoroughly enjoy _by himself_ (Hell, it almost felt better than his best Easter). No one to judge or bother him. Not even the cold he'd complained about earlier, which he barely felt because of the burning anticipation throughout his whole body.

Michael finally stopped when he was about twenty feet from the house, carefully setting down the delicate dishware on the dry, cracked open, dirt ground. Then, as if he was reaching for a chunk of gold, Michael, picked up the first plate to chuck, though he couldn't help but stare at it for a moment.

To his surprise, he actually could make out his reflection; however, it was heavily splotchy with smudged, grey blobs that covered his young face, almost making it look like it was ancient and decaying right off. But what really stuck out to him, was the long crack that ran from the top left corner to the bottom right. It made him look distorted. Broken.

To Hell and back he wasn't.

Michael first spat out his gum, then reeled his hand back as if he was a pitcher in the biggest tournament of the season, then **_hurled_** the cracked plate with every ounce of his might across the barren landscape. And just like when he destroyed the mailbox, he released every bit of the rage and stress storm he could let out into the object.

He knew the dish had landed when he heard the sound of glass shattering into a million pieces from a distance. It had felt good. _Really_ good, but Michael was still unsatisfied. It wasn't enough. His entire mind and body still swirled with a fiery cyclone he needed to put out. So the still-seething teen immediately snatched the next dish, and did the same thing, except slightly harder. And again. And again. And again. Faster. Harder. Feeling a strong satisfaction every time he heard the sweet sound of broken glass.

Until, when Michael went to pitch the next plate into oblivion, his hand grabbed nothing but air. He whipped his head around, only to see that he'd thrown away every single plate.

Michael huffed, wanting to run over and start stomping the shards until they were nothing but dust, due to the fact that his mind was still a confused, muddled storm. However, before the boy could take a single step it suddenly hit every part of him like a truck, how much he'd been both physically and mentally straining himself ever since he woke up. His once eager hands were now pleading with him to stop, as if he was doing the push-up test in P.E. Everything in the boy's vision was starting to bleed red, his head pounding with pain as if it had its own heartbeat.

And to add to his strain, a sudden sting flashed throughout his right hand, making him cringe and clench his teeth. Once the pain was mostly faded away, he looked down at it and saw a long, grotesque, nasty cut, with warm, sticky blood already running like a river across his entire trembling palm.

Michael cursed. Crap, how long had it been cut? He'd been so restless to just take out his anger on those plates that he hadn't even noticed when one of them sliced clean across his hand. Had it already been infected?

Ugh, freaking damn it. Michael still wanted to beat the crap out of something, but even he could realize from the size of the cut, he needed to get home and bandage it.

Fine. He'd just get on his bike, ride home, then-

"Hey, Britain!" Damn Tommy."Why the Hell are you staring off into Ponyland? Aren't 'cha ya ready to go now?!"

Michael spun around, quickly clenching his fist to stop the blood from pouring out (and punching Tommy), while shoving it in his pocket. The teen then trekked over to his three friends who'd just exited the house and were now walking towards him. Crap. He put on his best scowl to make himself look normal, and _not in pain._

"Yep, was just thinkin' about the birds and the bees," he quipped sarcastically, trudging past them to his rusty bike, standing it up.

Marianne rolled her eyes at the joke, "Well then, now that you threw stuff, are you less pissy?" she asked in a cheeky way.

But to her surprise, Michael almost completely ignored her. He simply pushed his brake up, barely hearing the pretty girl from the damn sting that lit his hand on fire.

"Uh-huh," he seethed out, "now let's go." Michael wasn't sure if his anger was somehow making the pain worse.

Jeremy frowned, his eyes locking onto his concealed hand, "Hey, Mike, is your-"

" _Ugh_ ," Tommy groaned (finally interrupting him in his favor), "let's freaking _go_. We're all going to turn into icicles."

Michael noticed that Tommy was actually right. The sun was just starting to meet the tip of the mountains, already causing the temperature to drop fast.

So the injured teen nodded, using it as an excuse, "Yep, so we better get back," he said, already starting to slightly pedal off (still with one hand in his pocket).

Marianne shivered into her red, wool coat, also looking pretty relieved to be leaving, "Come on, Jer. At least one of us will catch something if we stay here."

Jeremy opened his mouth as if to argue, but instead let out a sigh, seeming to realize there'd be no winning the argument. "Fine," he puffed out. Appearing relieved, Marianne and Tommy then walked off to go get on their bikes.

But before Jeremy followed, he met Michael's eye, as if saying, _I know what you're trying to hide._

Michael glared, standing his ground. _Don't you dare mention it,_ he thought back.

Jeremy then looked away, his expression unreadable. To his relief, the skinny teen then walked past him and got onto his bike.

With that, the group of teens rode off from the abandoned house and on their way back home, each eventually breaking off to their own neighborhood.

* * *

When Michael finally got to his house, it was both dark and freezing outside, the snot completely frozen to his face. He'd been out for too long, and this worn-out coat wasn't helping. Nearly all of his body had gone numb (except of course, for his still burning-in-pain hand) and he felt woozy - whether that from the cold or blood loss, he didn't know.

But Michael still managed to grab and fumble with the house key from his coat pocket, until he succeeded in unlocking the door. The teen pushed it open, looking inside. It was only five-thirty p.m. and all the lights were off. Nobody was home, despite them both being there in the morning (Chris had taken school off). Michael didn't have time to think about it. He just assumed they went out to get ice cream or something, so he hurriedly turned on the lights, and rushed past the living room and into the bathroom, still clutching his hand, which looked to be a bone-white now.

Breathing a bit unstably (damn it, why was a cut on his hand affecting him like this?) the teen frantically opened the mirror cabinet, grabbed the burning alcohol that sat next to pills and band-aids, then proceeded to pour the burning liquid on the still-open, but now slightly crusty wound.

Michael bit down hard on nothing, hissing. It took him using every ounce of his concentration to not scream in bloody pain from the vile sensation of his skin feeling like it was _burning_ off from every drop of the alcohol. The first time he'd had to do this was when he'd learned how to ride a bike. The little Michael hadn't known how to use brakes, so when he was about to crash into a tree, he'd jumped off, scraping his knee right against a sharp rock. And compared to then, he was reacting a lot better now.

Mum had been the one to clean the wound, bandage it, and "kiss it better."

Tch.

After what seemed like hours, the pain eventually fizzled out. And once it did, Michael made no time to swipe the bandages from to cabinet next, clumsily wrapping the wound around and around until the blood could no longer soak through.

Michael let out a sigh. He was pretty dirty from the dust, but mainly just bloody _exhausted._ His legs were turning into jello by the second from biking so hard, while his hands looked like they were seventy years older because of the cold, dry air sucking every bit of moisture out of them, or as if he'd never use lotion in his life. He felt extremely light-headed and dazed.

Moaning, the teen stumbled his way to his room and holding onto the walls for support, like some sort of zombie, then immediately collapsed on the grave he called a bed.

 _Maybe I pushed myself a little bit too hard,_ was his last thought before he passed out.

* * *

Michael opened his eyes Saturday to the sun shining. He glanced around, a bit dazed and confused when something caught his eye. He just managed to make out a fuzzy image on his closed door. Even though he was still quite a bit groggy, curiosity took over him, so he stretched out of bed, shuffling up to what he soon realized was a note on his door. Once his vision cleared up, he read it.

**Michael**

**I have to be at work today. I probably won't be back until very late. You're watching Chris for the whole day. Don't leave.**

**-Father**

**P.S.**

**You left the power on, so that'll come out of your snow-shoveling money. Also, if you're somehow going to be senseless enough to cut your hand like that, then don't bleed out on the carpet. Clean it up before I get back and-**

Michael didn't finish the note. Instead, he tore it to a million pieces, then threw it out of the window like confetti, watching it fly through the chilly morning air. To get his mind out of Hell, he made eggs and toast, put a plate in Chris's room (who was still asleep), and rode off again to hang out and prank with his friends. Whether or not Chris ate the food, he ~~wouldn't~~ didn't care.

He still made sure to clean up the blood spots, make spaghetti, terrify Chris with his Foxy mask once he got back (he knew the baby didn't have the guts to tell Father), then locked him back in his room. He finished the day by watching reruns of "Immortal and the Restless" late at night before he went to bed, ~~praying~~ trusting that one of those things would make him feel better.

At 12:34 a.m. Sunday, as he lay in bed, he still felt angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, guys, please be honest with me. Is this chapter alright? It really wasn't supposed to be this long... just an introduction to the other bullies but... I don't know. Please let me know, so I can see about maybe making edits later.


	6. A Day with Dad

Christopher Afton had had many, _many_ bad weekends. Heck, as soon as Mum moved out, he couldn't remember ever truly having a "good" weekend. But something about this weekend, specifically Friday, made it special compared to all the other weekends he'd suffered through. 

The day had consisted of leaving the hospital and going home to change clothes (with no words from Michael), which at first glance, definitely sounded appealing; however, Father ~~forced~~ insisted on taking Chris out for the day. Just the two of them (which he never did) because in his words, "my favorite son deserves a treat after what he went through." So he'd spent an entire day with a rare, casual-dress wearing William Afton, who'd went as far as buying him a lava lamp, taking him to an ice cream parlor, play at the park, and to see a rerun of The Fox and the Hound at the local theater.

The day would've easily been any other kid's dream day that they would've spent weeks begging their parents for. But to Chris... well Chris almost wished he'd spent the entire day back at the hospital, because despite the generous gifts, he just felt... uncomfortable. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake that feeling, because when Father told him they were going out together, the boy had been positive his straight-to-business father would remain his usual stoic and stern self, who'd just want to get the activities over with.

That was not the case.

Almost the entire day, Father was just acting scarily enthusiastic about nearly everything they were doing, as if he was some sort of cartoon character from the Fredbear and Friends show his son loved to watch. He cracked out-of-nowhere jokes, made funny faces to try and make him laugh, and even did cartoon-like sound affects (like whistles and tongue clicking) to certain motions and actions other people did. And if that wasn't enough, if _that_ truly wasn't enough to continually tip the boy's entire world - by far, most freakishly unnatural of all, (Chris still couldn't believe it), Father called out "Hey, Chris,!", then proceeded to perform a perfect _, almost childlike, cartwheel_ in the park when he got his son's attention (which was mostly empty because it was a cold winter).

It was so bizarre and surreal (and impossible in his perspective) that Chris was almost paranoid his father was somehow replaced by an impostor. Or that the clothes he was wearing controlled his personality, since his constant-suit-wearing-father seemed to have completely flipped a switch when he dressed up in an oldish looking, black blazer. 

Then the more rational part of the boy wondered if it was just simply how Father was with Liz when they'd gone out together. This was really the first time it'd _just_ been him and his father.

_Snap._

He never mentioned her if he could.

Despite the posters. 

Despite the news.

Despite what his son saw.

~~Did he not care? Or was it just too painful?~~

Though if people they knew asked about the "situation" while the duo were out, his smile would fade away, and his gaze would slightly shift down, but he'd still always politely tell them there were good people working on the case, and that his dear Elizabeth would be found soon. After all, Chris had told the detectives who he saw do it. Apparently, there'd already been a sketch done, which was briefly shown on the news. 

It was definitely a face you could use to draw a connection to many people. 

Chris had remained silent throughout almost the whole day, feeling a toxic, chemical-like mix of grief, confusement, and anxiety. Father had been surprisingly pretty patient in the beginning, not pressuring his son to talk if he didn't want to.

But it didn't take very long for that patience to dry out like a drop of water falling to the sun. 

Chris had started noticing after the park when his father... _his father..._ did a cartwheel (that was still hard to accept) and in response, the traumatized boy had just stared in bewilderment, almost not believing what he'd just seen. 

Maybe Father had expected some sort of applause or praise as if he was one of the animatronics on stage, because he'd seemed surprisingly upset when Chris didn't act impressed with his tricks. 

_Liz must've loved it,_ he thought.

_Snap._

They went and got ice cream at Fritz's Frozen Treats after that, but while they were in the shop, Father told Chris "To stop staring off," "Make eye contact when you're speaking to someone," and finally, "Speak up and don't look down like you've got a neck problem." All stuff he'd heard plenty of times before if they went out in public.

The boy then felt a combination of relief for his father acting more like himself and a pinch of guilt for putting him in a worse mood.

The two finished their night by seeing that rerun of The Fox and the Hound. Chris probably couldn't describe a bit of the plot or characters if he tried. He'd been nearly completely zoned out, as if he was in a trance, through it all. Just thinking about the same thing he'd been thinking about since he saw it happen. 

And as soon as the movie was (apparently) over, Father seemed to have snapped and had transformed like some werewolf in the full moon, back into his familiar, stern self. Before the boy could process that the credits were rolling, Father yanked him by his wrist and practically dragged him to the car.

Then after several awkward minutes of driving, Father looked at him through the top mirror, and said, "If you're not going to be grateful Christopher, I'm not going to take you out for fun activities."

"I'm sorry, Father," he responded in a bit of a mumble without really thinking. Though to be honest, he wouldn't exactly be sad if they didn't do this again. Despite the number of times Father told him this was for Chris, it didn't feel like it. It felt more like he was trying to interact with a whole different person, then got upset that his quiet, depressed son couldn't fill in a large gap in his heart. And besides, not having fun was the least of the boy's concerns. Father didn't respond, so the rest of the ride was silent.

When the house finally came into view, Chris could see through the windows that the lights to the living-room were still on. What was Mikey doing? Even if he stayed to watch Immortal and the Restless, he'd always flick the lights off. Did he go out with his friends and was still out?

Father apparently noticed too, because the man immediately cursed Michael's name, clutching the steering wheel with a furious grip, hissing out, "That damn kid better be cleaning that house top to bottom."

Chris doubted it.

As soon as the vehicle halted in the garage, Father stormed out of the car and into the living room. His son followed, hoping (no matter how unlikely) that his brother really was cleaning, just so he wouldn't have to see Father get too angry. 

When Chris entered, just like he saw in the car, the entire living room was lit up, but Michael was nowhere to be found. And even though it wasn't him who'd be in big trouble, the boy could feel his heart shrivel in fear when his eyes landed on a trail of fresh, dark red droplets that began on their orange rug, and like little trail markers, lead to the bathroom. 

Then, as if the red liquid was a trigger for a bomb's fuse to go off, the boy's brain erupted with an all-to-familiar roar of panic, his whole body shaking, as he sucked in quick, shallow breaths, while questions and absurd assumptions zoomed across across his mind all at once, about what had happened to his brother. What had caused the blood? Why was he hurt? What if it had been a skeksis...or a werewolf bite... or... or the _monstrous clo-_

"Go to bed, Christopher." his Father (who Chris had forgotten was there) suddenly ordered, his voice plucking him back into reality. 

Words came out of the boy's mouth before he could think. "B-but... Mike... he was blee-"

"Do I need to repeat myself?"

Feeling stupid for talking back, Chris hastily shook his head. "N-no, sir."

Father didn't say anything. At first, Chris thought he maybe he hadn't seen the red drops that definitely weren't there before. The boy couldn't help but peek at his father as he made his way across the living-room to his own room, just to see how angry he was.

But he looked... surprisingly calm. His expression reminded Chris of a blank sheet of paper they'd hand out in school - quite literally, unreadable. Still, his eyes were locked on the bloodstains as if he was somehow controlling where a missile would land. 

The fact that Father'd mood could change in the flip of a switch was the second most confusing thing in Chris's life.

Anyway, Michael was for Father to deal with... right? He wouldn't tell him to go to bed if he wasn't positive Michael would be alright... but still... the blood...

Making sure that Father wasn't watching him, the boy tip-toed down the hall to Michael's room that was open. It was dark, but he could just make out a familiar silhouette sprawled out like a star on the edge of the bed. Chris leaned closer, just to make sure he could actually see the rise and fall of his rude older brother's back.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, the boy trudged the rest of the way to his room, throwing on his rocketship pajamas that were crumpled on the floor. His arms feeling painfully empty, he then went to grab his favorite Fredbear plush that always brought him comfort off of the-

Oh. Right.

He'd lost it. Because...

_Snap._

He sniffled.

Chris was all alone, so surely there was no shame in crying (not like he was good at holding back tears anyway). None of his Fredbear and Friends plushies seemed that appealing anyway. He loved that show, but they just weren't the same as the one Mum had given him. Thinking about how he'd probably lost it forever just made the miserable raincloud over his head worse. So the small, tired child simply snuggled into his bed like he was a caterpillar in a cocoon, whimpering out his familiar tears for who-knows-how-long.

When the boy finally managed to fall asleep despite his crying, he dreamt that he was a butterfly, flying against icy wind in order to get to a tree, where the bark was vanilla birthday cake, and the leaves were cheese pizza. He didn't know why he was flying there, but he felt like he absolutely had to be there. As if there was something he was required to do. And he was almost there! He-

_**SNAP!** _

Chris woke up screaming when a blue-eyed fox snatched his butterfly-self out of the air with its hungry jaws while the dreaming boy was just a couple of feet away from the food tree. 

Yet after he was mostly calmed down, Chris still couldn't help but feel a huge sense of relief wash over him when his eyes found a plate of toast and eggs sitting at the foot of his door. Father never cooked, so that had to mean Michael was alright, and there was no monster in their house...

He then spent almost his entire Saturday locked in his room.

But even when his older brother opened the door just to scare his little brother with that horrible Foxy mask, Chris was able to notice a thick bandage, crusted with dry blood, wrapped around Michael's right hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To put it simply, this chapter was actually supposed to be quite a bit a bit different, buuuuuuut I got carried away with the details of Chris's Friday... so it became it's own chapter. But as always, I'd love to hear a review! Please, stay safe and do your best to have a great day!


	7. Back to School

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well AO3 friends, I'm excited to be posting another chapter for ya'll! I know this one came out rather fast, so I hope it's still alright. I was riding in the car for six hours, so I had a lot of time on my hands. And this one was pretty fun to write (feel free to call me cruel).

Because Chis's weekend had been so miserable, he was pretty relieved to be going back to school. There'd be no Michael or Father, so perhaps this would be his small light at the end of this dark, cold, dreadful tunnel. He hoped it'd be a good way to take his mind off of... well _everything._

Since Michael hadn't made any breakfast, the boy had poured himself a simple bowl of Cheerios before grabbing his blue coat and backpack, then heading out the door into the cold with his brother, beginning their routine to walk to school.

"Stop fallin' behind," Michael told him through smacks of gum when Chris started to trudge several feet behind as they walked past Ms. Parlor's old, pink house. "You're practically a snail."

"Sorry..." Chris mumbled out half-heartedly before adjusting his backpack and jogging up to his brother. He couldn't help but let out a yawn and rub his eyes.

Michael raised an eyebrow, giving him a side-glance. "You need a nap, little man?"

Chris shrugged, used to that kind of banter from his brother. "I just didn't sleep well..."

Michael smirked "Was it a nightmare? Did you wake up with your pillow completely soaked?"

"No." he immediately lied. There was no way he was going to tell the brother-who-picked-on-him-for-just-about-anything about his butterfly, caked filled nightmares that he'd been having all weekend. He'd never hear the end of it.

"You liar." Michael scoffed, calling out his bluff.

The boy didn't respond, suddenly taking an interest in the sidewalk as he was sucked into his thoughts. Deep, deep down, he knew the accusation was true, but not in the way Michael thought.

 _I lied,_ he thought to himself, with a guilty pit in his stomach. _I lied to the police..._

 _But it was for Father,_ another voice argued. _It had to be for a good reason._

_But then why-_

"Hey," Michael flicked Chris's cheek, tearing him out of his thoughts before they could start spiraling out of control."Tell me," he said when he had the boy's attention, "what's so amazing about the ground? Because I'm sure a car running you over like that rabbit we saw last week would make your pathetic life way less interesting."

A bit confused, Chris looked ahead - only to immediately stumble to a stop when he saw that they were just a couple of feet from the crosswalk. Then right after, an expensive, shiny white car zoomed right past them with a **_whoooooosh!_** without even slowing down, causing Chris to rocket back on his heels

When he landed, Chris hunched over, hugging himself as he trembled like a hairless cat in the snow, his heart beating rapidly in his throat.

Michael however, quickly spat out his gum, reeled his head back, and let out a long witch-cackle. "Oh, man! Ah, you should've seen your face when that car came up!" He slapped his leg, continuing to laugh at the panting Chris.

Blood was roaring like a hurricane in Chris's ears. The boy did his best to blink away the hot tears enveloping in his eyes as he bore daggers at his brother. "That's not funny Mike!"

Michael just rolled his eyes, no longer laughing, but still had a wide smirk. "Come off it. You're fine." He then stepped up at the edge of the crosswalk before Chris could respond, looking both ways. He gestured for his little brother to follow once he saw no cars were coming.

Chris didn't budge, now rooted to the ground, his mind imagining himself, flat as a pancake on the road, with his guts spilled out like a shattered bowl of pasta.

Michael turned his head and gave him an annoyed glare when he didn't come over. "Come on and stop being a baby. I would've grabbed you before your stupid ass actually walked into the street."

Chris glowered and let out a frustrated huff, but didn't argue. He waded over with his cold hands in his pockets, then walked across the whole street with his older brother, not meeting his eye.

"Fine, go ahead and pout." Michael spat when they were across, refusing to look at his brother as well.

Again, Chris didn't respond. There'd be no point. He wasn't in the mood at all to humor Michael - because right now, all the boy wanted to do was get to the school he'd use as an escape rope from this endless cave that seemed to be his life.

Michael didn't say anything more, so the rest of the trip was a silence that struck them both colder than the air.

* * *

School had been terrible.

It'd started out normal enough. Chris had actually almost felt kinda happy when he walked into his colorful third-grade classroom that was still filled with its familiar desks, students, and their sloppy artwork on the wall. It felt so nice and warm compared to the fridge-like atmosphere outside, welcoming the cold boy like a warm fireplace in the middle of a snowstorm. In reality, it hadn't been very long since he'd been to school. Nevertheless, he still felt a wave of nostalgia hit him when he smelt Miss Kelsey's (who wasn't at her desk) rose-scented perfume, which he used to hate so much for always making him gag. But now, he was sure this is what Heaven smelt like. Actually feeling a bit relaxed for the first time in a while, the boy hung up his jacket and coat on his assigned hook, then went to sit at his desk in the back left corner, where he'd be able to just let Miss Kelsey's voice tune him out and not think about-

"Oh my gosh! Look! Look! There's Chris! Chris Afton! I saw his sister on the news and some posters a few days ago!"

Oh no.

Before he could even turn around to see who'd called his name, several kids were up in his face. Then, what seemed like dozens and dozens of kids surrounded him just as fast, as if they were a flock of seagulls following one another to get to a juicy piece of food. They squawked out question after question, overlapping each other's voices like waves on a beach.

"Chris! Why was your sister on the-"

"I think I saw her on a missing sign! Where did she-"

"Where were you? Did you-"

"What did you see? The news mentioned you saw-"

"You-"

"Is your sister al-"

"Where-"

"Liz-"

"Gone-"

"Hey, why-"

Chris couldn't make out an individual voice anymore. The motor in his heart had started up again, all their questions melding together into one cruel machine that was created just to further torture the boy.

Instincts took over, thus all his mind was doing now was screaming at him to _**GET OUT.**_ Chis tried to move around in what little space he had against the mini arm, his breathing becoming dangerously ragged and quick as he frantically searched for a gap to get out. But they were all squeezed so tightly around him like some sort of dense object, making it impossible for the body he had (that he knew was weak) to fight through. He was trapped. Trapped in a box, with nowhere to go. So, Chris did the only thing he really knew how to do in a desperate situation - dropping down to the floor, bury his tearful eyes into his knees, and wait it out until the horrible flock of birds he called classmates, flew away.

It didn't help.

While most then stepped back, seeming to realize he was now crying - others, in retaliation, started poking him, asking him what was wrong and why he wouldn't answer their questions (what did they think?).

_Snap_

He couldn't take it anymore.

Chris brought out what was a now ugly, snot-filled face from his knees, just so he could open his mouth, and let out a piercing wail that practically echoed throughout the entire school. All the kids that were just poking him jerked their hands back, their eyes widening in shock and confusement as Chris continued to cry.

It was impossible. He couldn't get away from it.

_Snap_

"What is going on here? Who's crying?"

Every kid in the room (including red-faced Chris) stopped what they were doing and looked up in surprise, only to see their late twenties teacher, Miss Kelsey, who was wearing a purple sweater and jeans, standing in the doorway, her arms crossed with her lips turned into a disappointed frown.

"Chris is Miss Kelsey," round-glasses Minuette piped up almost immediately, "he did when we were askin' him questions."

Her eyes landed on the boy in question, who was no longer sobbing for all-to-hear but was still visibly shaking and breathing shallowly as he lay on the floor from being so tightly enclosed.

Miss Kelsey deflated, shaking her head. "The one time I go to the bathroom before school starts..." She looked at the clock, back at the clump of students, then at the mess of tears and snot on the floor that was somehow a human being. It looked like literal gears were turning in her head.

"The bell's going to ring in five minutes, so everyone go back to your seats," she then ordered, "except for Chris."

Though a handful of them didn't look happy about it, all the students did obey, a few mumbling to themselves as each eventually shuffled back to their own desks with their heads down.

Once satisfied, Miss Kelsey walked over to the still trembling child, crouching down to his level. "Chris," she started gently, "can you please stand and come out into the hall with me?"

The boy blinked. Her soft voice was almost completely lost from the sound of the seagull-kids squawking still vibrating throughout his head. But he knew one thing - he now desperately wanted to get out of this room, so he nodded.

The teacher then offered him her hand, which he shakily accepted after a few seconds. And by using her as leverage and his guide (since his vision was blurry from the tears), Chris managed to stumble his way through the classroom (with just about every little eye staring at him), and out into the hallway.

"Everyone remains silent until I come back inside," she told the other kids in the classroom before closing the door and crouching down to her sad student's level again. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

Chris didn't respond at first, sniffing in snot. He didn't want to say it. What Father would _want_ him to say. He didn't want to keep lying through his teeth when someone asked, because, despite the fact that it hadn't even been a week since he fibbed to the detectives, it was devouring him from the inside - as if organ-craving bugs were inside of him, nibbling away at Chris conscious bit by bit until he'd be nothing but an empty husk of nothing.

But still... if he wanted anyone to leave him alone, he'd need to tell them some type of explanation. Just not the whole story. That wasn't lying, right?

So finally, after thinking about what to say, Chris spoke, albeit staggeringly. "H-have... have y-you... se-seen the... the n-n-news?"

He knew it was enough, since as soon as the question left his lips, Miss Kelsey's face immediately melted into a heartbroken realization, like she suddenly understood everything. Her brown eyes were large and pitiful. "Oh, Chris...of course... I'm so sorry..."

The boy didn't say anything. Honestly, what was there to say at this point? He'd heard plenty of "sorry's" from the people Father talked to on Friday, and as impolite as it sounded, "sorry's" already didn't really mean anything to him anymore. It wasn't like he was angry at the people who said sorry - it just felt like empty pity.

Seeing that he wouldn't respond, Miss Kelsey took a deep breath. "Well... would you like to go to the office to call your father?"

Chris shook his head. Father was the last person who'd make him feel better.

"Would you like to come into class then?"

Well, it seemed he wasn't happy here either, but there really wasn't any other place to go right now. Home was miserable, so what difference did it make that school was too?

The teary-eyed boy gave a nod so tiny, he got worried Miss Kelsey didn't notice it.

But apparently she did because she too nodded. "Ok, I'll tell the class to give you some alone time, but you still need to be quiet during class. Can you please do that for me?"

He nodded.

Without exchanging more words, Miss Kelsey again helped Chris to his feet, leading him inside the class. Students who'd been speaking in hushed tones over cupped hands abruptly went silent, pretending that they'd been sitting there quiet the whole time. But they all still watched through the corner of their eyes, Miss Kelsey walk Chris to his desk. And Avery, the kid who sat next to him, looked away right as he sat down, imagining Chris was invisible.

The teacher then let go of his hand and gave the boy a reassuring pat on his shoulder, leaving him to go up to the chalkboard, just as the late bell rang. She told the class exactly what she said she'd say, the proceeded to teach fractions.

Chris put his head down on the desk, and let her voice tune him out.

* * *

When lunchtime came, Chris sat in the hallway by himself and only ate two carrot sticks and a fourth of his ham sandwich. He threw away the single scoop of vanilla ice cream that came with it straight away.

_Snap._

During recess, he spent the entire time watching a blond girl and a black-haired girl(who looked to be a grade or two younger than him) play jump-rope together on the pavement. It reminded him of Liz's best friend Charlotte. She and her father were visiting out-of-state relatives.

He wondered if she already knew, and if she didn't, how would she react?

_Snap._

The story Miss Kelsey read them was about a pretty girl, who'd been taken away from her family to the "world of her dreams" - only to find out it was all a big trick so she could be baked into a pie for giants.

_Snap._

Chris didn't cry for the rest of the day, yet not a single kid - even those who weren't in his class - had tried to talk to him after his outburst. Apparently, the story had spread like wildfire. Anytime he'd walk near a group, they'd push the pause button on whatever conversation they were having, then look at everything but him, waiting for the strange boy to pass.

Well, it wasn't like that was something that was really new for Chris. The boy couldn't remember ever really having a "best friend" or as Michael would put it, a "hang-out group." Chris was already pretty well known as the "weird, quiet kid," so the fact that his more popular sister had been on the news and was now the talk of their smallish town - explained why so many had suddenly taken an interest in him.

Chris sighed as he got up to get his backpack and coat off the hook, putting them on, then went to stand by the door. It was the end of the school day, so everyone had put away the school supplies, and were now zipping up their jackets and chatting excitedly in anticipation to leave.

While waiting for the bell, Chris started to reflect. After that traumatizing weekend, he'd completely forgotten that school wasn't really all that great for him. He'd really only been happy to go because he thought it'd take his mind off of _snap_ \- just for a little bit - but it was still there, following him around like some kind sick puppy. And Chris - like the coward he was - was running away from it. Instead of helping.

Home hadn't worked. Food hadn't worked. Movies hadn't worked. School hadn't worked.

Would anything?

Chris sniffed. He wished so desperately that he had his favorite-

Wait.

There was one place he hadn't tried.

Fredbear's

Chris's eyes widened as he stood by the door in place, realization smacking him. How had he'd forgotten one of his favorite places? He guessed he'd just been so focused on blocking out the thought of a pizzeria, that he actually managed to forget about it...

The boy felt butterflies start flutter every-which-way in his stomach, his once drained mind now working like a machine to figure out a plan. This... this could be it. This could be his happy place. He'd always loved Fredbear's, playing there ever since he could remember. If he went there and was able to feel better, then maybe his muddled mind would be cleaned out, and he'd be able to think more clearly about all of this. It wasn't very far. Definitely within walking distance from his house... and he knew that Father wouldn't be there, because on Friday, in order to make conversation, mentioned he'd be busy at the other location. So maybe... this could work...

But there was one problem, he realized.

Michael.

His older brother had been put in charge to walk Chris to and from school every day for years, and no matter how bad of a mood he was in, he _always_ did it. Probably because it was one of the things Father had been most strict about... and he couldn't imagine Michael wanting to watch him at the pizzeria...

But then again... apart of himself he wasn't familiar with countered, Michael would definitely just lock him in his room again...that certainly wouldn't make the boy feel any better... and heck, who was to say he'd even care? Despite what he said, Michael looked _gleeful_ watching Chris almost get run over by a car... laughing at him and his crying like he always did... so if Chris wasn't there, he'd probably just go home or hang out with his bully friends without giving a care in the world.

That fact hurt. It stung his heart like a wasp. But... in a weird way, it made him more determined. If Michael didn't care... well... well fine then (a strange fiery emotion was starting to cloud his mind) Chris, for once in life, figured that he deserved one chance at some kind of happiness. And besides, it was simple enough; he'd just walk over to Fredbear's, have a good time with no Michael or Father to boss him, then arrive home before Father got back. And Michael wouldn't care. Yeah, simple.

_**RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNGGGG** _

The bell rang. Chris had been so lost in his thoughts that it'd almost flew over his head that he was still in school. He was still standing there when a herd of impatient kids started bumping past him and out the door before he could process what'd just happened. And before the boy knew it, he was the only one left in the classroom.

Well, besides Miss Kelsey, who looked up from her book she was reading from her desk, and at the only child in the room. "Chris? Is there something you need?"

He turned in her direction."Oh, uh, no miss... sorry... I was just thinkin'..."

She nodded, "Ok then... well, be safe, and have a good rest of the day. I wish you the best of luck Chris" She then smiled warmly and gave him a small wave.

Chris didn't smile back but he did return the wave. The boy then made his way out of his classroom, through the halls and into the cold, frosty air. People's air puffed out like clouds of white smoke. Many cars and yellow buses were now pulled up to the school, waiting for their kids to get in so they could leave.

Chris looked around the property. No Michael. Good. He was usually pretty late anyway.

Chris was about to take a step to set off, but a feeling he was all-too-familiar with struck out of nowhere and gripped at his heart - fear. Fear that made him doubt everything he was doing and what he believed in. And then out of habit, questions started to flood his mind: What if he got kidnapped on his way there? What if he got lost? What if Father was there and got angry at him. What if-

 _No,_ he forcefully told himself. He wouldn't let this ruin his last shrivel of hope. Chris took a deep breath, thinking.

An idea sprouted in his mind.

Maybe... maybe he didn't have to be Christopher Afton. After all, Christopher Afton wasn't very smart, or brave, or courageous... and he always ran away... so if he couldn't do this... then maybe somebody else could...

The memory of a Fredbear's and Friends episode suddenly played in his head; Foxy the Pirate had discovered his friends were taken by the mischievous Spring Bonnie, but without a moment of hesitation, the fox then sailed on his trusty ship across the Saucy Sea past a ravenous sea monster and then had trekked through a jungle to get to the cave they were being held in. That was a good episode. It'd been a two-parter special.

Chris took a deep breath, collecting himself. So he'd do his best to just be Foxy, but not like the fraud Michael was - somebody who'd laugh at the feeble challenge of simply walking to a pizzeria, and would get to their destination no matter the challenge, though they'd still help anyone along the way.

He pulled one arm up through his coat sleeve and closed his right eye in order to get more into character.

"Aye," Chris said then to himself in his best pirate voice, "to adventure."

Without further hesitation, the brave pirate then marched forward like any swashbuckler would when starting an adventure, setting off on his daring journey.

Though he wasn't able to get rid of the knot squeezing inside his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang it Michael, you're my favorite character. Why are you being such a jerk?


	8. Missing

Well, today at school, as Marianne would probably say, "Michael was pissier than my aunt's nasty, old cat who gave me a scar on my left arm."

And though he didn't doubt that to be true, today, Michael had experienced a different kind of pissiness - a kind of anger that made him feel like he could destroy Pluto. And this was because losers he'd never seen in his life suddenly stopped him in the hall and classrooms to ask or talk about "the situation."

"Mike, are you ok? Man, you must be really be hurting inside..."

"Hey, listen, I heard about your sister. I know how you feel, dude. I... I had a cat that ran away... that was really hard..."

"My family and I will pray for her to come home. You should too, alright?"

"I know this is hard but... it could be worse, right?"

The more people spoke to him about it, the more smoke he felt coming out of his ears. So to contemplate, he'd either snarl back "Tell me that again and I'll break your neck," or simply march over and punch a locker just to prove his point (and release his anger on something that wasn't a person). Just about everyone would look away and stopped trying to talk to him after that. Hell, even going out of their way to avoid him if they could, acting like there was somewhere important they had to be if he was at least five feet away.

And although that was fine by him, the damage had already been done.

It was hard for Michael to put into words as to why the questions and talk about his missing sister pissed him off so much. The best way to explain it was that it was really something you could only start to feel. It was a feeling that had started to eat away at him, as if his stomach was a hollow tree that had nothing but beetles chewing away at intestines, every time someone brought it up, and it was only growing worse. How were you supposed to react to that? And what's the word for it?

_This is your fault._

Ok, but it definitely wasn't _guilt_ or anything like that. Nope. He was just pissed that some losers who never gave a crap about him or Liz before suddenly wanted to know the juicy details about how his sister got kidnapped.

That the idiots acted like Michael was some kind of broken animal that needed to be comforted. That they told him they _understood_ and how what had happened was "so horrible." And damn right it was- fucking _obviously_ \- but he knew the real reason why they were so interested - in a twisted, but truthful way, this was just the most exciting thing that had happened in this nowhere town since his father and Henry founded their pizza business.

They didn't really care about Elizabeth or Michael. It was just gossip that would fade away as soon as she came home.

Because she would. He'd overheard Father yesterday talking with the detectives on the phone in his room. And though he could only hear from one side of the conversation, it'd definitely sounded like they'd had a lead.

_So it'll be fine,_ he told himself. Again.

And besides the people he'd snapped at, Michael would remain silent throughout the whole day, not wanting to be talked to. His friends seemed to sense this since even during the social hour that was lunchtime. They awkwardly talked to each other, and not Michael as he did nothing but picked at his food.

Again, fine with him.

And because he was constantly being reminded of Liz's kidnapping, Michael figured it'd be best for him if he got his brother home as quickly as possible.

So when Hell was finally over, Michael breathed a sigh of relief, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and walking out of Science. And usually, in a situation like this, Michael would feel like beating something into oblivion or go hang out with his friends to make him feel better (especially since he felt so furious before). But right now, that was not the case. His mind now felt like a pile of mud that was somehow set on fire, put out, then was stomped out by a herd of elephants. So, at the moment, his entire mentality was just _bloody exhausted._

The teen had also punched more walls and lockers than he thought - mostly using his left hand, and when looking down at it now as he walked through the halls and up to his friends, he could see many bluish-purplish splotches developing on his knuckles. And boy did it _ache_. Had he actually managed to break it? It'd most likely need to be bandaged too.

Damn it.

And because Michael had endured being so irritable almost all day, amazingly, like some sort of railroad train, he'd managed to run out of steam, which he used to think wasn't possible. He was Michael James Afton - the guy who loved to break crap just to make himself feel better. And right now, he felt _awful._

But damn it - his mind was practically a sewer now from feeling nothing but hot rage for so long. And now it was _demanding_ that he rest.

So as much as he'd love to, he denied going out with his friends to the junkyard. They looked like they wanted to convince him otherwise, but didn't, probably seeing in how bad of a mood he was in.

"I'm bloody tired, and if I don't take the little man home, my dad will kick me out and make me dig my own grave," Michael told them.

There was no arguing there. They knew what his dad was like.

"Well, you better change your mind and come over when you're done," Marianne teased with a smirk.

"I'll think about it," he gave her a wink, turning around to walk off.

"Oh, hey wait," Jeremy said out of the blue (Michael groaned), "Sorry, but I just remembered that I gotta walk over to the supermarket to buy some Hot Pockets."

Each teen blinked, making sure they heard him right. That... was unexpected, to say the least. And random.

"Hot Pockets?" Marianne then asked with a perfectly shaped eyebrow raised.

"Yep. Hot Pockets," he responded immediately, "my dad and I love 'em. Best if I get 'em today, or he'll get upset."

"So?" Michael asked.

"So I know it's kinda on the way to your house," Jeremy verified. Though... weirdly he wasn't making eye contact... and was looking down...

He suddenly realized that Jeremy was glancing at his hands, so he shoved them in his pockets. Jeremy looked up, giving him an annoyed frown.

_None of your damn business,_ he thought back with a glare.

Damn Tommy then grinned as if he was a hunter who'd just found the best antlers on a stag. He let out a chuckle. "Oh, so you wanna go on a date with Britain's ass through the-?"

" ** _No!"_** Jeremy and Michael both shrieked instantly, cheeks turning red, with Michael's hands getting completely wiped out as their main concern. What the actual Hell?

That only caused Tommy to bend over and start howling like some hooligan on crack. He held his stomach as if he was going to throw up, tears of laughter pooled from his muddy-brown eyes.

Marianne just rolled her much prettier, chocolate ones, shaking her head. "You're all a bunch of idiots."

Michael could feel his damn cheeks burning up as his eyes danced around (except at Jeremy). People were starting to stare. And while Michael didn't usually give a crap on what strangers thought of him - damn it, damn it, _damn it._ His idiot friends were making him feel like an idiot because they were messing with him while he was tired-as-all-Hell. Plus, there was somewhere he actually had to be.

"I'm leaving," he said haughtily, spinning a 180 on his heels, and walking away as soon as he was faced away from them, "I don't give a rat's ass whether you come or not," he snapped to Jeremy without turning to look at him, "just don't talk to me."

If Jeremy said anything or even heard him, Michael didn't know, because all he heard was damn Tommy snort out, "Oh, Jeremy, it..." he took a moment to laugh, then gathered himself "it looks like Britain's giving you the - **_OWW!_** Fuckin' **_Damn it,_** Marianne!"

It was now Michael's turn to smile and chuckle, even in what felt like a Hell-Hole. He couldn't help it. Bless that girl.

Michael then shifted his mind on getting to Chris's school. He was still tired, so the sooner he got him home, the sooner he could sit on his ass and rewatch reruns of Immortal and the Restless with a hot bag of popcorn. And there'd be no damn Tommy or damn Jeremy.

Speaking of, as Michael passed his school and crossed the road through the cold, cloudy atmosphere, he couldn't help but occasionally give a slight glance over his shoulder, just to see if Jeremy was there following him.

He wasn't.

Well. Good. fucking' great. Damn Tommy already embarrassed the crap out of him, so no way in Hell he was going to care. It was Jeremy's choice, so it was none of Michael's business.

He still looked back a couple of times.

Hurricane Elementary was just about half a mile away, so the walk only took little more than eight minutes.

Michael could see from a short distance that there were still a few kids sitting on the grass while waiting for their parents and-

Hold on.

Chris wasn't there.

Completely forgetting about Jeremy, Michael started to walk more briskly, squinting just to be sure - and to his dread, he was right. Chris wasn't outside. Not good.

And before Michael knew it, his legs were suddenly moving as if they had a mind of their own, because he was now full-on _sprinting_ as if he was in some kind of world's marathon. Barely slowing down, the teen raced across the road without even looking both ways, onto the moist grass (and amazingly didn't slip), and up to the school.

The wall he put up in his head shattered, flooding with questions before he could think about their plausibility: Where the Hell was Chris? Where did he go? Why wasn't he there? _Had somebody taken him?_

_She's gone. Missing._

Michael skidded to a halt once he was up to the front doors, nearly smacking into the glass. Damn it. He needed to calm himself down. His breathing was way shakier than it definitely should've been.

He then squeezed his left hand to make him snap out of it, cringing heavily when the pain somehow managed to sear through his entire arm.

_Damn it,_ he thought when he was thinking straight again. Freaking out wouldn't solve anything. And he was _not_ the type to freak out, so he started thinking of a logical possibility; it was cold, so maybe Chris had just decided to linger inside for once and was waiting for him in the office. That was probably it.

Without further delay, Michael opened the door and marched inside his old school and up to the main office window, pressing his hands and face against the glass to peer inside.

The only one in there was a chubby lady with big hair and cat-eye glasses, sitting at the counter while scribbling something down on a piece of paper.

It took everything Michael had not to shove one of his injured fists through that glass.

Still, even as he walked away, Michael wasn't worried. Nope, nope, Hell nope. It didn't mean anything that his pulse was speeding up rather quickly. That his hands and brow were starting to sweat despite the cold. That his mind felt like a thunderstorm. That the image of a man yanking Chris by the arm then throwing him in his car and then driving off to Mexico.

_She's gone. Missing._

_This is your fault_.

**_Hell. No._ **

As soon as Michael was outside, he marched up to the first kids he saw, which were two girls sitting under a small tree; one who was pale and had extremely blond, curly hair - while the other looked to be Asian with black hair put up in pigtails.

"Oi!" Mike barked at them.

The two girls looked up from whatever conversation they were having. Blondy looked a bit startled, while Pigtails just frowned, seeming annoyed.

"Have you two seen a kid who's a bit older than you, brown hair, a blue coat, and looks like he spends his whole life crying?"

Pigtails' brow furrowed in suspicion. "Why do you need to know?"

Michael gritted his teeth. _Don't get mad. They could assist you._ "He's my damn brother. That's why."

She tilted her head, "How do I know that he's your, brother?"

Deep freakin' breaths.

"Because he is Chris _Afton._ I am Mike _Afton._ Simple enough for you?"

"How do I know that's your real name and you're not a kidnapper?"

_"Because,"_ Michael hissed, his patience nearly dried up, "I am a freakin' _thirteen-year-old._ What makes your dumb, little brain think I'd be a kidnapper?"

A pause. She seemed to be thinking, not looking very offended by the insult. Her other friend stayed quiet, watching the two bicker back and forth as if they were playing ping-pong.

**_She's gone. Missing._ **

**_Your fault._ **

Pigtails finally spoke, "Well, how do I know-"

That was it.

Without thinking, the pissed-off-as-Hell teen seized Pigtails' shoulders. He began shaking them, as if he could shake common sense into her, all at the same time, roaring in her face. " ** _DAMN IT. HE'S CHRISTOPHER. FUCKING AFTON, WHO COULD GO MISSING BECAUSE YOUR SMARTASS MOUTH DIDN'T BOTHER SAYING WHERE HE WENT. AND I'M HIS FUCKING ACCURSED BROTHER - MICHAEL, I'M ABOUT TO YANK THOSE UGLY PIGTAILS OUT OF YOUR FUCKING SKULL IF YOU DON"T TELL ME -- !"_**

_"HE WENT THAT WAY! THAT WAY! JUST PLEASE, STOP!_ _"_ Blondy suddenly cried, pointing across the road.

Michael stopped shaking Pigtails, his whole body slightly trembling from the outburst. He was now panting heavily and his brain felt like it was lit on fire again. Still, he was able to turn his head in order to focus on where Blondy was pointing.

"You... you mean," he said out of breath, " he went down... down Holliday Boulevard?"

She nodded in a jittery way.

It all suddenly clicked in Michael's burning head.

And he couldn't believe it. He actually couldn't believe it. He could not believe that his brother (who he already considered to be an idiot) was this. _Bloody. Freaking. Mental_. The baby hadn't been kidnapped from school, he just ran off to Fredbear's _without telling Michael._

What. The. Actual. _Hell?_

What, was this his way of getting back at him? To make him get worried? Look like a bloody idiot? Did he think Michael wouldn't-

"Please, just let go! You're hurting her!" Blondy suddenly sobbed, bringing the teen out of his angry swirl of thoughts. He looked back at her. Tears were now running down from her blue eyes. When had she started crying?

_You're hurting her!_

It suddenly hit Michael like a bag of bricks what she was saying.

He was still gripping onto Pigtails' shoulders as if he was dangling from a cliff, with both his injured hands screeching at him to let go.

A pause. Michael didn't know why, but for one second, his mind went blank, hardly being able to process what he was doing, and why he was doing it.

But finally, Michael's hands managed to shakily lift themselves off her, carefully setting themselves on the grass. Then, wanting to look at anything but her, he tried to analyze where Chris had runoff.

Though he still saw out of the corner of his eye Blondy immediately leap over and wrap her arms around Pigtails. From what sounded like whimpers, she seemed to be crying too... Apart of him did feel a twitch of concern, but... Michael just... couldn't look at her. His body refused to let him.

That feeling deep in his stomach was also growing stronger, almost making him want to vomit. His mind had felt so clouded while he was shouting at her that he couldn't remember her facial expression - just red - because all he thinking about was **Chris = Kidnapped.**

And... truth be told... he didn't want to... _no_ , couldn't _afford_ to see how she was doing. The little brat he called a brother could easily still picked up by a pedo on his way there, and if he wasn't... well...

Michael didn't really know what he'd do, but he did know one thing.

He. Was. _Pissed_.

The teen was about to get up and run off, but the sound of weeping little girls stopped him. Damn it. What was wrong with him today?

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Michael dug through his pockets, pulling out a few packs of gum, some suckers, and unopened Cowtails; candy that he'd kept in his pockets for a rainy day.

Without looking at the little girls, the teen stood up, tossing the candy right next to them.

"Sorry I bothered you..." he mumbled out. It was so quiet, he didn't know if they heard him.

They didn't respond.

Well, it didn't matter.

So refusing to delay his time any longer, Michael ran off in the direction Chris went.

_No more distractions,_ he said to himself.

So he blocked out the crying girls. Blocked out the pit in his stomach. Blocked out the fact that his left hand felt like it'd been crushed a hundred times with a rock. Blocked out the thought of his friends possibly waiting for him.

Because as Michael ran against the cold wind that was picking up, he let his old, familiar engine drive him. Keep him going. _Fuel him._

His rage.


	9. Fredbear's Family Diner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, look, I'm gonna warn you right now, this chapter ends on a bit of a cliffhanger. I also apologize because I'm probably going to go on a bit of a hiatus. To put it vaguely, there's something important I need to study for.  
> I thank you all for your support and patience with this and future chapters. Please enjoy!

Foxy the brave, daring Pirate had managed to travel far past his homeland to the land of Fredbear's. While Foxy himself never once doubted he could (even with the boy's fear always in the back of his head), his journey definitely hadn't been without its fair share of challenges. But that was to be expected for any _real_ pirate's adventure.

The first obstacle had been easy for the fox's witty mind. He simply had to memorize a few puzzles of color codes consisting of red and white. It was really quite simple - the white flash meant he was allowed to pass across the black, frozen river to reach the safety that was land.

Though on the contrary, if he went during red - well, then he'd unfortunately, fall prey to the roaring beasts that roamed across the river, and as f they were hypnotized, only slowed down when the red light flashed in front of his eyes.

The pirate then passed many native's homes, looking each way to see if any needed help, as it was common for a humble peasant to need assistance, and a pirate always helped those in need. He'd actually encountered a couple of small scallywags in front of their home, who'd managed to accidentally throw a rare, ball of gold up into a tree of great hights. Chris wouldn't have dreamed of climbing it, but of course, Foxy ignored the boy and didn't hesitate. And by using his spectacular acrobatic skills, he managed to soar to the top of the sapling and retrieve their treasure.

"Why are you talking weird?" a red-haired boy with many freckles had asked when he handed him his gem, "And are you missing an eye or somethin'?"

"Arrgh, because it just be the way a pirate talk," Foxy (Chris) explained, "and I lost me eye because of me bird."

The boy shrugged, "Uh, alright then... thanks for getting our ball."

"Aye, it's only a pirate's duty. And no reward is required."

"Uh, well, I wasn't really gonna-"

Foxy put a paw (hand) up. "No need laddies! Now if ye excuse me, I must be off now!"

The pirate fox then scampered off on the sidewalk before the kids could reply. He had a destination to reach!

However, before he arrived at the lair of Fredbear's, he ran into one more obstacle; a scroungy mutt, with the temper of a stormy sea.

Unfortunately, when this happened, Chris went back to being Chris.

He shrieked when the little dog started barking and bolted up with incredible speed, so it could pounce on him with those sharp teeth. Forgetting about being Foxy, the boy raced almost the rest of the way there, only managing to escape the giant rat when it managed to interrupt a large, grumpy cat's sleep with its barking, quickly getting into a tussle with the thing.

Now, after running more, just to be sure he got away from it, wimpy Chris Afton stood at the edge of a neighborhood, clutching his chest and breathing heavily with a pounding heart.

And of course, he was crying.

But since it was cold, the tears felt like icecubes running down his face, so he frantically wiped them away before they froze.

As soon as he was mostly calm, he looked around to make sure there weren't any more dogs, then at the street sign to see where he was; Cherrygrove street. Ok, that was fine. He was close. Closer than he thought. He figured it'd be best to get there sooner rather than later, since if he remembered right, there should be a 3:00 showing.

He took a deep breath. Well, he supposed that he didn't need to be Foxy anymore, considering he was less than a quarter-mile away...

Chris took a few more glances around, just to make sure nobody was following. And besides a guy mowing his lawn, nobody else was outside.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, the timid boy then continued on his way, eyes darting towards any sound if was so much as a leaf blowing in the wind.

Though eventually, when he turned one final corner, just entering the park, he saw it, less than a football field away. Feeling incredibly more eager, Chris sped up, running off the sidewalk and cutting onto the grass. The brown picket fence and the playground equipment that was just a simple swingset and seesaw grazed his vision, as the family pizzeria came into full view. The boy was just about to run across the parking lot when-

_A car running you over like that rabbit we saw last week._

And suddenly, as if his mind had just pushed on the brakes to avoid a car crash, the boy's legs abruptly skidded to a stop on the sidewalk Chris had just ran onto. He just managed (by putting his arms out) to keep himself from falling off the curb.

When he regained his balance, Chris looked right. No car. He looked left and just like before - immediately bounced back when he saw a tan minivan with who-knows how many children inside, _whiiizzz_ right past him.

The boy hurriedly took several more steps back, waiting for the loud vehicle to drive out of the parking lot, just to be safe.

Once it did, he again thought of what Mike had said.

Would that have hit him? It wasn't going nearly as fast as that fancy, white car... but still...

Chris shook his head to snap himself out of it. He was getting off-topic. This is what happened when Chris was just Chris...

Not wanting to delay his want any further, the boy hurriedly double-checked the road again, then promptly walked off across the parking lot, making sure to stay clear of any oncoming vehicles.

The slots were decently filled, which made sense, considering school had just gotten out. And though it was quite common for parents to drop their children off, and then come back later (because they considered it to be a small, safe town), perhaps they decided it'd be better to stay with their children after...

Chris pushed the thought out of his mind before he got caught in another tear-storm, trying instead to focus on every part of the grand pizzeria. Like how the whole building felt so much more colorful and alive compared to the rest of the town. While it was the shape of a typical, wide rectangle like most restaurants, the color is what made it stand out - which was the bright bluish-purple of a lavender, unlike the common, drab grays and browns of many buildings. And at the top of the establishment read the classic title in bold golden letters - **Fredbear's Family Diner**. The nostalgic smell of a classic, handmade (like the commercials said) pepperoni pizza drifted to his nose, making his stomach let out a hungry growl in response. Chris only then realized how much he was starving, and how little he'd eaten today. PIzza sounded so appetizing right now.

The boy gave a small smile when he finally walked up to the wide, bright red doors. His eye caught the figure look to the left, where a cardboard cutout of the iconic, golden Fredbear was set, standing in a proud pose, as if he was showing off his (well, really Father's) restaurant. Hopefully he'd get to see a show.

Well, the sooner he went in, the sooner he could.

So without further hesitation, the boy pushed open the red door, entering the very spot that held many of his best memories.

A sense of nostalgia stirred with amazement made him stop when he heard the familiar tune of country-folk music and when his nose caught a whiff of birthday cake that was so sweet it'd hurt his teeth, just to take into the whole atmosphere.

It felt weirdly long since he'd been here last (when had he come here last? It was much more frequent when Mum was home, or when Father would sometimes let him play if he was working there...), but whatever the case, it was all the same: The dark blue carpet sprinkled with specks of different colors, the prize corner in the back that held all kinds of stuff, like Fredbear watches, yo-yos, frisbees, and even more goodies any kid would spend hours working for in the arcade. Kids sitting at the tables eating their fresh pizza then washing it down with-

Oh no.

The boy hastily pulled his coat's hoody over his head, not wanting to get flocked again like at school. And while these kid's were certainly less bored and more occupied than his classmates, he didn't want to risk it.

Tired of standing around, Chris then walked briskly with his head down, past the tables and stage (where the purple curtains were closed) and up to the counter in the back, where a bleach-blond, curly-haired, highschool lady sat in a purple employees uniform behind the counter. Her legs were kicked up on in, with a cigarette hanging from her mouth as she read a magazine, not paying attention to any of the playing children.

"Psst." Chris said.

She didn't lookup.

_"Clare."_

"Hmm?" The lady blinked her baggy eyes as if just waking up, setting her magazine down on her lap. She put her legs down and sat up, then glanced down at the small boy behind the counter.

"Oh, hey," she greeted casually, taking the cig out of her mouth, "I've seen you around here before. Aren't you that Afton's son? Carter?

"I-it's Chris. Chris Afton. And be quiet... I don't want anyone else to recognize me."

"Uh-huh," she nodded uncaringly, already glancing back down at her magazine. "So what d'ya want? Is your dad workin' or somethin'?"

"Oh, he..." Shoot. Chris hadn't thought of an excuse, but still, he didn't want to lie. "I actually came here on my own..." Would she kick him out?

"Cool." she replied. Oh, right. This was Clare, who'd he'd seen quite a bit at the counter when he'd come here, and couldn't remember her ever caring if she could get away with it.

An awkward pause as she continued to read her magazine and puff out smoke.

"So... uh," he finally said, "c-can I get some pizza... a-and a drink maybe?"

She shrugged her shoulders, "You're the head's kid, so sure. What kind?"

"J-just a small cheese and coke."

"Alright," she again looked up from her magazine, grabbing a pen and paper just to the left of her, scribbled his order down, then rehearsed in a monotone voice, "It'll be ready for table three, faster than a Spring Bonnie can bounce." The employee then stood up, letting out a stretch and a yawn before heading over to the kitchen.

Chris remained silent for a moment. He glanced up at the clock on the wall - 2:58 - so -

Wait, that meant the show would start soon!

A small firework of excitement and realization burst in his chest. This was it! This is why he'd come here!

Feeling much happier than just a few seconds ago, the boy then dashed over to his own small table that just-so-happened to be located on the very front row. The tables themselves weren't filled up very much - mainly just a few bored looking parents reading a book or newspaper until they decided to leave, while the other adults were in the game room with their children. And if there were kids, they'd just take a couple of bites of some pizza, a sip of soda, and then hurriedly dashed off to play some more.

The fact that he was mostly alone actually made Chris bounce a bit up in down in his seat. It made him feel special as he sat there, hoping that the other kids would be too busy with the games to watch the show (though he was probably pushing his luck). He was aware that neither Fredbear and Springbonnie weren't "real" animals and that Henry was mostly behind their existence, but that honestly didn't take any of the love or adoration Chris had away from him. They still sang, they still danced, still would sometimes get off their stage to interact with the children, and overall, they just felt so _alive._

His favorite was probably Spring Bonnie, because even though he could be a bit of a trickster, it was always in good fun, and in the end, he always did the right thing (unlike Michael). And though it seemed a bit biased, it was also because he'd performed handstands, cartwheels, and other tricks just for him at his sixth birthday party. And despite Father not being able to make it for most of the party, that'd probably been his favorite birthday. Mum had come down from New York, Michael hardly spoke to him, Henry and kind Charlie had been there too, and Liz even-

He stopped bouncing.

Liz.

_Snap._

It felt like a trigger had just been shot in his mind. Every one of his muscles suddenly tensed up, as if he was a gazelle getting ready to sprint away from a predator. His hands found themselves the side of his chair, nails scrapping like a saw against the wood, the memory again, continually bashing itself into his skull.

_A claw._

_Snap._

_Scream._

Tears were prickling at his eyes.

A sob threatened to escape his throat.

No. _No,_ he said to himself. He could feel it. He was slipping. Slipping back into the confusing, swirling hurricane that held nothing but despairing, merciless winds that would spiral the boy - no matter where he flew - into every possible breakdown. Around, around. Again, again in a complete lonely, whirling darkness. Pitch, black shadows that he'd be unable to find his way out of.

He frantically looked at the clock - 3:06 p.m. - then back at the stage. The violet curtains were still closed, and the show lights were off. Why hadn't they started? Why-

"Hey, Clark, here's your pizza and coke."

The boy nearly jumped out of his seat from the sudden sound, only to see that it was just Clare, who no longer had a cigarette, but a pizza platter in one hand, and a drink in the other.

Her brow furrowed. "Geez, kid, what the Hell? Ya look like you just saw a ghost..."

"Where's Fredbear and Bonnie?" he asked, ignoring her observation.

"Huh?" she asked as she set down his pizza and drink.

"The show. Why hasn't it started?" he asked, his voice with the slightest hint of desperation.

She looked up at the closed stage. "Oh, um..." for a moment her face scrunched in concentration, as if trying to remember script lines, "well, Spring Bonnie's probably having trouble deciding what he wants to wear."

"But he always wears the same thing, unless it's a holiday."

Clare then rolled her eyes, groaning. "Look, kid, I don't know. I'm not in charge of that stuff. Just wait like everyone else and they'll come out eventually."

Chris opened his mouth to say something, but she'd already turned around to head back to her post and magazine.

The boy then stared down at his pizza and drink. He'd lost his appetite. The hole in his gut suddenly made him feel like he'd just been served something from a dumpster, while his entire mind nearly choked on a sense of anxiety.

Liz.

_Snap._

The storm.

It was coming for him. Hunting him. His brain demanded this show like some sort of sick addiction, his body entering the stages of having a breakdown - clammy hands, a knot in his stomach, shallow breathing, and of course, tears stinging his eyes. He'd already thrown a fit today. If he had another one, he was sure his entire body would give out like a tower during an earthquake without a secure base.

And then, as if finally having enough of his brain's fear, his body seemed to move on its own. He got up from his seat, leaving the hot pizza and cold drink behind. Not knowing what else to do, Chris started to check just about every door and room, because he felt utterly _desperate._ So, so desperate for some kind of escape. A sanctuary. He didn't even have any tokens on him, so he couldn't play the games, and when he looked back at the counter, Clare had left again, taking somebody else's order. So this was it. Those animatronics were all he had as friends for comfort.

However, there really weren't that many other places to search through. There was the kitchen (which he quickly ruled out), the bathroom (nothing), and the game room (again, nothing). Chris was just about to curl up into a little ball of sadness, when something close to the back exit - like a shadowy finger beckoning him - caught his eye.

A large, black door that had a sign reading **EMPLOYEES ONLY!** looked to be the slightest bit cracked open, as if someone was in a rush and forgot to close it all the way. Chris had a vague memory of Father telling him to never go in there, and so to diminish any curiosity he may have had about it, he'd always pretended that it didn't exist. But there it was now, almost calling him to peek inside.

Chris couldn't help but feel a bit hesitant at first. Again, Father had always told him that the room was off-limits to him one hundred percent of the time.

 _But,_ that part of his mind argued, _Father's not here. Neither is Mike, so you won't get in trouble._

_But he always said not to-_

_Snap._

Chris quickly scanned the area around him to make sure nobody was watching: Kids were still playing, Clare was now chatting with someone at the counter, and parents simply sat doing their own thing with or without their children. Nobody would notice.

Still, his heartbeat rapidly increasing because of his anxiety, so Chris did his best to put himself in the mentality of Foxy again; he imagined the door held a grand treasure that his friends had hidden for him to find, and when he found it, both Fredbear and even the prideful Spring Bonnie would be proud.

That thought calmed him down. He was just Foxy - an adventurer who wouldn't let the timid Chris get in the way. A brave pirate that had simply to sneak to another room. He could do that with his other eye missing!

So then, deciding to use his stealthy fox skills, the fearless crusader pulled his hood a bit more over his head, then tiptoed his way across the pizzeria, ducking behind tables, then making sure Clare was still occupied with customers before heading past the counter, and to the very back of the restaurant.

The journey felt longer than it really was. The whole time the pirate looked over his shoulder multiple times to make sure nobody had seen him, but eventually, he did reach the door.

He stood in front of it for a moment, contemplating. The Chris in him again made his heart leap with doubt at disobeying his father's orders, but... this was _for_ the scallywag, so he could be _happy._ Just one little peek inside to see what treasures his friends (if they were in there) were hiding away from him.

And if they weren't in there... well, hopefully, Foxy could find another adventure to distract his mind before Chris had a breakdown.

So with that in mind, the pirate fox pushed open the forbidden door, just subtly enough so whoever was inside wouldn't notice, but wide enough so he was able to peep in to see who (or what) layed in there. He could just make out through the dim lights-

His brain realized what he was watching.

_SNAP!_

Chris screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm.... what did Chris see? Was it real, like what happened to Liz? ;D  
> (In all seriousness, I'm sure most of you have guessed correctly).


	10. Brothers Bicker

Michael hadn't stopped running ever since he'd sprinted off from Chris's school. Adrenaline and fury were all that was fueling him now, so he didn't even want to think about how his body would react when he eventually cooled off.

He also didn't know how long he'd been running for, or really how many drivers or pedestrians he'd manage to piss off again, but that was definitely was the least of his concerns right now.

The entire run felt like some kind of a blur, since through it all, Michael wasn't even really thinking; his body was just moving, like it had some eternal instinct on where he needed to go, which is why he hardly looked around to see if Chris was there.

Though eventually, that damn pizzeria came into view, and Michael was lucky not to get run over by a car when he zoomed across the parking lot. How the Hell he even managed to run the whole way without tripping was beyond him.

Michael finally forced himself to slow down when he got to the front of the restaurant, and like before, he just barely kept himself from faceplanting into the door.

But as soon as the teen stopped, his energy seemed to deflate like a bounce house that was just slashed with a pair of scissors.

As much as he wanted to storm in, Michael's body started to sway all on its own, so he couldn't help but use the door as leverage for a moment. The Afton teen took several gulps of air while he wiped the dripping sweat from his brow that had managed to seep out despite the cold air. And just to add to his pain, his lungs also burned like acid from breathing in the frosty, crystalized air so hard - though worst of all, his thumping heart was repeatedly pounding against his ribcage harder and harder, as if it were a wild animal fighting to escape, with the legs he had being ever-so shaky under his weight.

He took several breaths to try and regain his strength as quickly as possible.

And that's when the teen's head snapped up in attention when he heard it.

 _Screams._ Damn screams he could recognize from a mile away.

Feeling his anger-energy return as if caffeine or some super-serum was just pumped into his blood, Michael let out snarl through gritted teeth. The teen gathered every ounce of strength he could manage, then launched his (still very injured) hands into the entrance, slamming the double-door wide open. He simply stood there for a split second and looked straight ahead, his shady figure and shadow loomed into the restaurant like a puddle of black paint pooling onto the carpet, or if he was somehow the twist character on a soap opera, now making their dramatic entrance for the big reveal.

Then as if on cue for said soap opera, the crowd inside turned to stare at the newcomer.

He took a few steps inside and let the door close behind him.

The people had quickly gathered around a single table in the front row, mumbling to one another while looking confused, scared, and annoyed all at the same time. Michael didn't need to take a wild guess on who was hiding under there.

The teen then stomped forward up to the crowd, shoving his way past concerned parents and children that were getting ushered away from the sight.

"Hey, kid," some nobody said when he pushed past him, "what do you think you're doing?"

Michael didn't respond. For a moment, when he got past the crowd, he just stood there in front of everyone, staring at the sniveling, snotty mess that was his brother hidden under the table. He'd seen this so, so many times, that he wasn't able to pull off feeling a lick of sympathy. This freakin' bastard ran here just to do what-ever-the-Hell-he-wanted.

"Wait, isn't that William Afton's son?"

"Wow, has to be. Looks just like 'em."

Michael clenched his jaw, having the sudden urge to punch the teeth right out of whoever said that. He absolutely loathed when people pointed out the similarity between him and his deadbeat dad; however, right now, he didn't have time to be pissed off at it.

So he continued to ignore the muttering crowd, kneeling down to the baby's pathetic level. Chris was curled up in a tight, blue ball, sobbing into his knees, while seeming to mutter something intangible under his breath.

Well, he was breathing, and there didn't seem to be a scratch on the brat, so that was good enough for him. No way in Hell was Michael in the mood to compromise with the little bastard - no matter how loud he would scream. Not with his own head currently pounding and his shaky body feeling like it would give out at any moment.

So, the teen reached under the table, and _yanked_ Chris by the foot out from under it.

At first, the boy let out a surprised yelp - which quickly reverted back into more hysterical thrashing as he bawled out " ** _NO! NO!_** " - but Michael had honestly been expecting something like that.

"Excuse me!" some lady suddenly cried, "What do you think you're doing?"

Michael didn't respond. He didn't give a crap about what she wanted or thought of him - so - like he'd done many times before, the teen simply slung his bloody tantrum-throwing brother over his shoulder as he continued to kick and punch at his older brother.

Michael put on his street face, making sure not let anyone else see that the assault actually did _kind of_ hurt.

And sure, the teen seemed stoic as Hell right now, but Michael'd be sure to let the little prick know _exactly_ how he felt when they got home.

He turned around to leave, only to see the crowd of adults were now tightly closed in on him.

Michael scowled, glaring daggers at every one of them. Hell, freaking no. Sucking up the urge to just barrel through them, the angry teen spat out, "This little knob is my brother you bloody prats. Are you all plannin' on not lettin' me take him home?"

Looking a bit taken aback by his word choice, the crowd glanced at each other uncomfortably, as if pleading for somebody to speak up... but nobody said anything. After an eternity of silence, the idiots standing in front of the teen finally scooted out of his way, creating an opening.

Michael trudged past them and out of the Hell-space without saying another word, doing his best to keep on his tough-face, and tolerate every punch and kick, repeatedly telling himself that he could handle it.

* * *

_Snap._

Chris screamed, the awful, recent images flashing throughout his mind.

_Snap._

It happened. It'd happened again. _He. Saw. It. Again._ The figures were shady and dark, but he could make it out - _someone's head was sticking out of Fredbear's mouth_ \- while another shadow was repeatedly trying to push the person in.

Any rational thought lept off his train of thought.

Thus, his brain was only able to come to one conclusion.

They ate someone. _Again._ They really were _evil. Monsters._

They were monsters that would eat him.

The boy spun on his heels to make a run for it, but ended up coming face-to-face with giants - huge, towering figures - that were already looming over him, hands reaching for the boy, like he was a tiny insect they could squish. Their mouths seemed to move as if they were saying something, but he couldn't hear them, only his panicking mind.

Chris started to back up with his head now yelling at him to get away from the adults, but the sound of the door behind him swinging open with a **_SLAM!_** caused him to shriek and jump again - a cruel reminder on what he'd seen going on behind him.

_It's behind you, it's behind you, **it's behind you.**_

_It will kill you_

The boy's flight instincts took over every part of him - and before he knew it - he'd scurried past under the legs of distracted adults, making a dive for one of the first tables he saw.

He hadn't at all thought about what would be a "good" place to hide (like the exit) - heck, he wasn't thinking at all - his body had just leaped to the first place that would cover him.

The small, scared child then hugged his knees, curling up into his typical defensive ball, quivering, as if he was some sort of pathetic hedgehog. He cried and cried and _cried_ , praying that the giants would leave him alone this time. Though most of all, that the other monster wouldn't find him. And for a little bit, his plan actually worked. He managed to both sob and wale into his knees, soaking them in a matter of seconds -with nobody seeming to bother him.

But still, in a way, that made him feel worse, because it was suddenly like all of his other senses were flame that was snuffed out, leaving him in an endless void of only one endless thought. All he was aware of now, were the two horrible memories playing in his head. Two memories that would haunt him forever. Two memories of lying, deceitful, malicious animatronics.

 _They're evil monsters_ , Chris's brain blared at him - like some kind of megaphone in his ear, _they ate Liz. They ate someone else. You can't escape it. You're nothing but a coward who doesn't do anything. You-_

Something grabbed Chris's ankle and _yanked_ him from under his hiding spot.

He was so startled that for a moment, all he let out was a simple _yelp_ of surprise.

The boy's anxiety made sure to screech at him the only thing it could be.

Immediately, he himself started to shriek again. It was the thing in the room. It'd come for him. It had him and was going to gobble him up.

Chris knew in that moment he wouldn't be able to tuck himself into his defensive ball for protection, so not knowing what else to do, the boy did something that he'd almost never done before.

He fought. He kicked. He punched. He _screamed_ at the thing that was holding him, doing anything in his power to getaway. But it didn't budge. The thing simply held Chris in a tight _squeeze_ by his back, tolerating whatever the weak boy was throwing at him.

Chris didn't know exactly when, but his punches became slaps, which then became taps, and before he knew it, his skinny bones and non-existent muscles had completely given out. He hung limply over the monster's shoulder like some sort of ragdoll, eyes closed with silent tears and snot dripping from his face. It felt cold. Were they outside? Why wasn't anyone doing anything? Perhaps it had eaten all of them too...

The boy felt himself finally accept defeat. There wasn't anything he or anyone else could do. It'd finally come for him now. It was taking him to its deep, dark cave, where it'd bury his bones where no one would find his remains. At the very least, he hoped it'd be fast like Liz, and that he'd end up with her too.

Huh, maybe he was already in Heaven. Warmth was suddenly tickling at his skin, as a light also seemed to be shining on his closed eyes. Had it already killed him? Even he could see that didn't make sense... Chris had felt nothing. So why-

**_WHAM!_ **

The boy shrieked. Before he could process what'd just happened, he'd felt himself get thrown by the monster across its lair - probably its stone cave - and faceplant onto something... soft? And... pillowy? But... it felt familiar... What?

Chris risked just barely peeking his puffy eyes open - at least to make out where he was. His vision was blurred, but could definitely tell he was laying on their green couch.

The boy's brain suddenly felt like a VHS movie that had just frozen and was unable to produce a clear image. Was he... was he in his house? But... that didn't make sense... why would the monster-

"You better sit up and look at me you little bastard."

The voice wasn't too clear because of a slight ringing in his ears, but he heard it.

Oh.

_Oh._

This was way worse than a monster.

Chris didn't sit up, but he did turn his head and open his eyes more fully to try and get a better view. There, standing over him as if he was grand oak over a mouse- was his father.

* * *

It didn't take long for the little asshole to finally stop hitting him. No way in Hell was Chris strong, but even Michael had to admit, he put up way longer of a fight than he was expecting. Though when he eventually ran out of steam, he almost seemed to pass out, and for the rest of the walk, he just hung off his shoulder as if he was a dead body.

Michael shook his head. Bad analogy.

He knew how sketchy having a limp eight-year-old hanging on your shoulder must've looked, but thankfully, no one tried to stop him. The teen would get a few people to squint their eyes at him when he passed now and then; however, seeming to recognize him, they'd usually just let out a sigh and return to whatever they were doing. He figured this was something he did commonly enough, that people knew he was no kidnapper and was just taking his crybaby brother back to base.

He felt more angry than happy with that fact.

Though eventually, Michael managed to get the both of them home without any real distractions. And though he was glad to be back, because of the way his legs were starting to wobble like a pudding being poked, or the fact that his vision seemed to be getting darker (not just because of the dark clouds), the teen still told himself to tough it out until he dealt with Chris.

So, almost as soon as he unlocked the door and entered, Michael flung his brother like some kind of pro-wrestler, across the living room and smack-down onto the sofa.

The prick squealed, landing face-first onto their couch. But to Michael's surprise, he continued to just lay there in some kind of shock, shaking with his head facing away from the teen. Did the little asshole want Michael to just leave him there for the rest of the night to cry?

Well Hell no. It didn't matter how out-of-it he, or Michael felt. Sure, Michael's throat ached of dehydration. Sure, his legs felt like they were toothpicks trying to support a brick. And freaking _sure_ , his head was starting to become lighter than a feather, which was making the room spin. But damn everything - if Michael was about to drop dead, he'd make sure the last thing he did, was let this mental. Bloody. _Twat from Hell._ Know how much he just screwed himself.

So, taking a deep breath, and trying to make himself appear anything but weak, the teen let out in a low growl, "You better sit up and look and me you little bastard."

Chris finally stirred. While he didn't sit-up, he did turn his head meet his brother with his bloated red eyes. And Hell - bloated and red was really the only way to describe Chris's face right now. It almost looked like he'd had some kind of severe allergic reaction, as just about everything, was puffed like some kind of red balloon.

Still, he was breathing just fine, so Michael opened his mouth to continue, but then-

"F-father?" Chris rasped out.

Michael stared.

_The Hell?_

Chris then tilted his head, and squinted, as if trying to get a better look at him. He seemed to finally realize who he was actually looking at, since his eyes lit up in what could only be described as realization.

"Mikey?"

* * *

Oh. Whoops.

It was Mikey who'd brought him home, _not_ Father.

Still, Chris didn't think he was at-all at fault for thinking so. Ever since he could remember, Michael'd always resembled Father in an almost uncanny way. He had the same dark hair, the same cold, blue-eyed stare, and _especially_ the same scowl. Maybe that was one reason he'd always had a bit of a phobia for his brother.

However, his thoughts were still sloshing around like water in a boat, so the boy wasn't able to really think about what he'd just said, and how Mike would feel about it.

But the teen certainly looked angry, that he could tell.

Though for once in his luck, all Michael did was eventually let out a frustrated huff at the remark, while clenching his fists and glaring at his younger brother, clearly showing that this was one of the last things he was furious about right now.

" _So,_ " Michael then hissed, sounding eerily calm for his personality. Chris almost wished that it was the monster that'd taken him. "Are you gonna sit there like a pretty little bitch, or are you gonna tell me why you decided to run off?"

Chris blinked, still feeling a bit dazed and shocked, "Wha?"

If his brother was a cartoon character, steam would be blasting from his ears and possibly his mouth.

 _"Why."_ Michael took a step closer. _"Did you."_ he jabbed a finger into the boy's chest. _"Runaway?"_ He stood there like a statue, waiting for an answer.

Chris still wasn't thinking straight, so he asked the first thing that popped into his head.

"Why do you care?"

Stunned silence.

The boy looked down at his hands, hardly thinking about what he'd said. He'd meant it, and it really wasn't what his mind wanted to focus on, as it was already drifting back to the horrible, grotesque tragedy he saw take place. Chris sniffled, his eyes wanting to tear up again. Why did-

 _"That's not what I asked you sick little knob head_ ," Michael seethed out, his voice dripping with venom. He gripped Chris's shirt to fully get his attention, voice rising. "Our sister got kidnapped, and you thought it'd be a freakin' great idea to go by yourself where any pedo could pick you up?! _What the Hell is wrong with you?!"_

Chris blinked, staring past his brother and at the spot on the wall where the family portrait of his three other family members used to be, lost in his thoughts. Only one thing Michael had said had registered to the boy's brain.

_Our sister got kidnapped._

_Snap._

_"No,"_ Chris whispered.

That was not the answer his older brother had been expecting. "What?"

_Monsters._

_Snap._

_Crunch._

Chris wrapped his hands around his head, begging for the images to stop flooding his mind, but it was too late. They were back, and they promised to never leave him.

"Wha... what the Hell do you mean?" Michael asked, slightly shaking his brother's shirt. "Why are you crying again?"

Again, Chris hardly heard him. The boy cradled his head as if it was a newborn baby, trying desperately to comfort himself. Nobody else was going to.

_It's my fault. It all my fault. Liz is gone. Somebody else is. I'm a liar. A coward. A-_

" ** _Chris._** " Before the boy knew it, Michael pinched both of his cheeks in his bandaged hand, forcing him to stare into those cold, dark, furious blue eyes, that somehow resembled a flame. His voice a thin sheet of dry ice. _"Answer me, or I'm taking you back there."_

That. _That_ finally got Chris's attention to spike. His destructive mind forced him to watch the image of Michael dragging him back there with his foxy mask on. The monster. It'd be there. Waiting for him.

"No, no, _no, please_." he found himself begging, since Michael made it impossible for him to shake his head.

"Ok, then for the last time, _freakin' tell me_ ," Michael released his cheeks, " _why_ you decided to fly the coop, and _why_ you were throwing a bloody tantrum in the one place you never cried in."

Chris could feel his mind panic as alarms continued to blare back in forth in his skull - and _again_ \- making it almost impossible for him to fully pay attention. He felt like he was drowning. Drowning in his bottomless pit of despair and fear. What had Michael asked? The memories almost refused to let him listen...but... something about him flying and crying? He was crying. His face was wet. Had he asked why he was crying? Well, to Chris, it was obvious...

_Is that what you will tell them?_

Father had told him to lie about Liz... and he did... he did and it was still eating him up inside... but so far, Father didn't know about this. So... _technically,_ it wouldn't be going against Father's orders if he told Michael about this. And even though his brother was probably the last person he'd want to share his insecurities with, Chris was honestly sure his body would explode if he had to hold in _two_ secrets.

That still didn't mean getting the words out was easy.

"Um... I-I... I... uh-uh-" he stuttered out.

" _Chris, I swear to-"_

 ** _"Isawsomeonegeteaten!_** "

The brothers both paused in different disbeliefs.

The younger then found his hand holding his chest, as he took in quick, ragged breaths, almost not believing that he'd just said it. Just like that. It felt so unnatural and out of character... but he'd spat it out - because holy cow, if he wanted at least one thing in life, that was for Michael not to take him back there.

Chris's confession seemed to finally sink into Michael because somehow, the teen's dark eyebrows managed to furrow even more. "Did you actually just say... that you saw someone get eaten?"

He nodded, not meeting the teen's eye. He was looking way too much like Father when he was questioning the boy at the hospital for his liking.

"Like, eaten, _eaten?"_

"...yes," the boy mumbled.

Michael paused for a moment, seeming to think.

Chirs held his breath in anticipation.

Michael then started to slowly shake his head, while muttering out, "I don't believe this... I don't believe it..."

"I-it's true!" Chris cried frantically, his head snapping back up. Gosh, what was with him today, suddenly blurting out everything at the top of his head? The boy supposed he'd just do anything right then _not_ to get dragged back to Fredbear's - or any pizzeria.

Michael's frown deepened as he raised an eyebrow in skepticism.

"I w-was by the b-b-back door..." Chris started. He hated retelling the events more than anything in his heart, but he'd give anything to just _stay at home,_ so he forced himself to continue."I-it was open... I wanted t-to see where they were... s-so I looked inside... and... and..." Chris let out a loud sob. " _ **There was someone getting eaten Mikey!**_ " the words somehow managed to tumble out of his mouth as the boy clenched his brother's coat for dear life. " _Fredbear. Fredbear's mouth!_ There-there-there was someone... s-someone sticking right... r-right... a-and another p-person..." Being unable to finish, the boy let out another wail, burying his soaked face into his brother's chest (who didn't even flinch), not at all paying attention to how he was reacting.

It was short-lived.

Because after just a few seconds of tears, his older brother clasped his hands onto the boy's shoulders, forcing Chris off of him and back against the couch. Michael then crouched down to his level and stared at him before the boy could react.

Chris met dark, cold, _furious_ blue eyes.

Like Father's.

He was practically looking at Father.

"I'm gonna tell you this once since no one ever did," Michael growled in a low voice - so clearly done with this all. "Sorry to ruin "the magic," but those animatronic suits are also costumes that the jackass employees can wear."

Wait, what?

Chris again blinked, processing what Michael had just said. "W-what? But that's not what-"

The teen took a frustrated breath, looking like he was using everything he had to keep himself calm (for his standards). "Freakin' Hell, _are you this bloody dense?_ You saw a guy putting a suit on, and someone else helping. _That's it."_

The boy sat there, letting it sink in.

It... actually made sense. A lot more sense than what his father had told him at the hospital. The small, rational part of Chris knew that.

But the larger, more stubborn part of the boy's brain _refused_ to believe that because he knew _exactly_ what he saw happen to Liz. And Father had told him he saw something different - as if he was trying to scrub his head clean and replace with a filtered out version of what actually happened.

So the child's brain was practically _screaming_ at him that Michael must be doing the same thing, and there was _no other option,_ burying the reasonable part of himself deep into the boy's subconscious, not letting another option enter his mind. How? How could he trust Michael to tell him the truth?

So pushing his luck, the boy shook his head in a trembly way, no longer meeting his brother's eyes. "No..." he whispered in a tiny voice, not even sure if Michael could hear him.

Well, he definitely did.

 _"Gah!"_ Michael abruptly stood up - causing Chris to flinch - while throwing his injured hands above his head. "Bloody, bloody, _bloody freakin' Hell, you gormless twit!"_ he put his bandaged hand over his eyes, letting out a mocking laugh. "You know what? Why do I even bother? Fine. Since you're brain's nothing but a bag of ferrets, bloody _fine._ You're right!"

"I... what?"

"Congratulations! You're _freakin' right!_ " Michael sneered, throwing his hands up again, his voice becoming more and more croaky as he spoke, like he was laughing and talking through a paper shredder. "You really believe that's what you saw? You not gonna believe a word that _I say?! Well HA! Fine!_ See if I care! You clearly think I don't! Those bloody robots chomp people to bits all the time!"

"It's not a joke! Stop it!"

Michael's only response was more wheezy howling, as he fell onto his knees, holding his stomach as if he was drunk and about to throw up.

Chris was speechless, not knowing what to do as Michael continued to rant through his laughter.

"This is why I screwed my body over to pick up your ass! Because you're a bloody crackhead! Not because you were kidnapped - _no_! Because your messed-up brain thought he was seeing a murder take place!" He let out another hysterical wheeze.

Again, Chris sat there, paralyzed as his brother kept up his maniacal laughter, completely bending over and pounding his fist on the carpet. Huh, his whooping was starting to become deeper and rougher, almost like he was-

Wait.

Michael wasn't laughing anymore.

He was _coughing._

Chris was stunned and almost terrified by how quickly his brother transitioned from laughing to practically _hacking_ like a cat trying to throw up a hairball. It was only then he realized how physically weak Michael looked.

Just about every part of him was coated with sweat, causing his usual fluffy brown hair to plaster to his straight down to his skull as if he'd drenched it in gel. Both of his hands looked horribly injured, with one being bandaged, and the other thickly bruised. How had he managed to hold him down with those messed-up hands?

And his wheezing almost made him sound like a sick old man having a heart attack, as well as making him look ten times skinnier, with his just about every part of his skin sinking into the bone. Gosh, Chris was nearly positive if he so much as poked Michael, he'd collapsed.

But even with Chris's timid mind, he couldn't help but ask himself - had he really just been afraid of Michael? When he was like this? Had his mind refused to let him see just how much he must've physically strained himself? Because he could only see his father at that moment, and not his weak, teen brother?

Chris was just about to get up and (try to) go over to comfort his frail-looking brother, but Michael finally halted his coughing, holding his throat tightly while taking in raspy breaths. He looked up at him with bloodshot spheres that were holding two raging blue flames.

"M-Mikey-"

Michael raised his palm up in a stop signal, causing Chris to snap his mouth shut. Breathing hard, and without saying anything, his brother pointed down the hall.

The message was clear.

 _Go to your room_ **_now._**

To be honest, Chris didn't think that Michael could use any physical force to get him there. His bruised hand was shaking so horribly that it looked almost like glass about to shatter. And while Michael's gaze was unfaltering on the boy, they were sunken deep into his skull, reminding Chris of a body that looked like it was on the verge to decay.

But still, Chris wouldn't put it past Michael to try and throw him in his room anyway, no matter how exhausted he was. And while the boy was still very-well felt upset at him... no way he wanted to see Michael injure himself even more than he'd already had because of his stubbornness.

So, with that thought in mind, the boy put his attention to the ground, shuffling past Mikey without saying anything, and back to his room, closing the door behind him.

He layed down on his bed, staring at the lava lamp Father had gotten for him on their day out.

And with nothing else to distract his mind, his cruel brain again made him sit there and watch one awful scene after another - again and again, spending another long evening and night - crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this chapter taking longer to come out. This was probably the hardest one to write, and I was busier this week, soooooo... yeah. But anyways, I hope this chapter is alright for ya'll. And as always, I'd love to hear what you thought of chapter. I really hope the POV jumps weren't too jarring and it wasn't too fast-paced (that's kinda what I'm worried about).  
> P.S.  
> I don't want anyone to get too confused, so yes, Chris did in fact see someone putting the costume on, not someone dying. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. He's Totally Fine Guys

Michael didn't know how long he sat there trembling on the ugly, orange carpet for; minutes, hours - fucking _days?_ It sure felt like it, but... bah, it didn't matter.

However, once his bones started to slowly feel like they were no hollow sticks about to snap in half, then sluggishly dragged himself across the floor and up onto the couch and again - like he'd been doing all day - ignored the protest of his hands while they... ah, screw it... they'd honestly gone through so much pain today, that they were practically numb now. He was starting to wish he hadn't given his gum away.

Still, once he was as comfortable as he could get, the teen managed to loosely grab the remote that was rested on the armchair and turn on the TV. He glanced at the clock - almost 5 p.m. - which meant that Immortal and the Restless wouldn't be on since it was a late-night show. He sighed and flicked through channels until he found Days of our Lives. Not nearly as good, but it should do.

Ha. Ha.

It didn't.

Michael tried his hardest to pay attention to the show and _not_ the ripe anger and confusion and exhaustion that was squeezing at his insides like a mishmash of fruits getting juiced - and were also threatening to puke straight out of him because of how disgusting it tasted.

But no matter how hard he tried, his mind kept on drifting back to Chris, and what he'd asked.

_Why do you even care?_

Why was _that_ sticking with him out of everything? Why was it making his wrenching stomach feel so much worse? Not the _F-Father?_ (though it still stung a bit), not the _Isawsomeonegeteaten_... just-

_Why do you care?_

Well, Michael didn't need to think about it much longer, because the answer suddenly ticked in his head, causing the teen to let out a bittersweet scoff and laugh.

Ha. So that really was why the baby ran off, huh? Just to see if his cruel older brother would give a crap and chase after him.

If both Michael's body and thinking process didn't feel so drained, he'd probably grab his Foxy mask in order to teach the little bastard a lesson.

So instead, he just layed there and clawed at the sofa. Chris was an idiot. A bloody, bloody idiot. He was so stupid, that he dived straight into the first conclusion that entered his puny mind, thinking he saw one of the animatronics devouring a person.

 _But he did see his sister get kidnapped_ , the smaller part of him whispered, _so it might've messed him up with what he sees._

 _That still doesn't mean he has to flip out when he doesn't see anything actually bad happening,_ he shot back.

And, well, great. Now he was thinking about his sister and how she was missing because of-

_Your fault._

He sucked in a shallow breath through his nose.

 _They have a lead, they have a lead, they have a lead,_ Michael started to hammer into head repeatedly - but the excuse was just starting to feel more and more hollow every time he told himself that, since he hadn't heard anyone else besides Father talking about it. So, the teen figured he'd just stick his hand in a pool full of crocodiles, and ask Father whenever he came back. Michael knew his old-man would probably be pissed at him for eavesdropping on his conversation with the cops - but honestly -Michael was more worried about his insides self-destructing if he continued to sit there without knowing for sure.

But... ugh, Father could sometimes be pretty random with when he came home, so Michael didn't know exactly how long he'd have to wait.

And with nothing good to pull his attention away from his crummy thoughts, the teen continued to lay there on the couch and think about what had just transpired between himself and his brother... whenever ago.

The whole thing almost felt like a dream Michael had just woken up from. It'd all gone by so fast that he couldn't remember everything he said right after he'd started howling, despite his throat feeling like it had gravel rubbing against it whenever he uttered a word out. But his entire mental state had practically gone off the rails, so the teen was rambling pretty much any nonsense that'd popped into his head... hmm, now that he thought about it, he hoped he didn't say anything Chris could blackmail him for.

But even with that thought in mind, Michael's stubborn pride wouldn't let him admit any guilt - because the little man had brought this all on himself: Chris was the one who ran off, Chris was the one who threw a tantrum, and Chris was the one to peek into an **_employees-only_** room that caused said-tantrum - so why should Michael feel sorry? The teen was so afr-... had _considered_ the option of Chris getting kidnapped so thoroughly, that he'd practically gave the bird to his body, then overworked it like he himself was some sort of lapdog.

And while Michael definitely wasn't a stranger to doing something like this when he got frustrated, he couldn't but think that this time, he may have gone a _tad_ bit too far (if the fact he didn't have the energy to even break crap was proof enough)- and for what exactly? To drag his brother's wimpy ass home? When he would've been fine if he'd stayed there and thought for two seconds about what he saw?

_Too bad you didn't use that energy to save your sister._

Tch.

He turned and shoved his face into the cushions, hoping it'd suffocate that thought out of him.

The teen didn't know when, but sleep eventually enveloped his mind like the blanket he'd been longing for.

* * *

_Michael sat at the dining room table by himself, doodling in a sketchbook. Elizabeth then came through the front door and up to him, trying to peek over his shoulder on the edge of her toes in order to see what her brother was drawing._

_"What are you doing?"_

_"None of your damn business, Liz," he snapped, trying to cover the doodles with his left arm._

_"Mum and I went to the park. "_

_"So?"_

_"I fell down and scraped my knee, but Mum kissed it better. I also cracked open my head. There was a ton of blood and brains and stuff - but don't worry - Mum kissed that better too."_

_"I don't care," Michael responded, hardly hearing what was coming out of her mouth._

_Silence._

_"Of course you don't."_

_"What?" his head shot up and met her cool, green eyes._

_"You hate me," she stated with a neutral expression, as if it was a common fact. "But that's ok - because I hate you too. And Chris. And so does Mum. That's why she left."_

_He narrowed his eyes, "What do you mean she left?"_

_"She dropped me off here, and then drove off to be a dancer, dummy. That's what I said. I was too much for her. Chris was too much for her._ You _were too much for her."_

_"I don't understand..."_

_"I don't expect you to, Daddy."_

_He blinked, making sure he heard her right. "I...What? What do you-"_

_"Why didn't you save me when I got hurt, Daddy?"_

No... _he thought._

_"Why do you hate all of us?"_

_He took in a quick breath. This wasn't happening._

_"No... no, Liz, I'm not-"_

_"Why did you tell her to go away, Daddy?" her voice was rising, now just inches away from a yell._

_The pencil in Michael's hand snapped and half, his breathing became dangerously shallow as he shook his head, unable to believe what he was being told. "No... no, no, **no.** "_

_"You let me get taken!" She suddenly screamed at him, her voice nails on a chalkboard. "I thought you loved me, Daddy! **You always said I was your favorite!** "_

_Unable to take any more of it, Michael clasped his hands over his ears to try and block out her shrieking. "Stop it, stop it, **stop it!"** he begged._

_But no matter how much he said it, or tried to block it out, Michael could still hear the girls' high-pitched shrieks, as if she was a parasite taking over his mind and forcing him to listen to her every word, while getting louder and louder until he somehow killed himself._

_**"I'm gone, Daddy! Mum's gone, Daddy - because of YOU! YOU'RE HORR-"** _

**_"STOP!"_ **

_Michael's body reacted before he could think -he sprung forward - leaping out of his seat and past his sister who still stood there while she continued to scream and scream and **scream at him**. But his legs somehow moved at an impossibly fast speed, not stopping until he skidded into the bathroom and up to the sink._

_The teen gripped the thing's edge for dear life to keep himself from collapsing, taking in quick breath after quick breath. His mind wasn't able to contemplate what had just happened. What Liz had just screamed at him. This... this wasn't right. Something was wrong, but what?_

_Michael turned the faucet on and splashed water onto his face, attempting to snap himself out of whatever he was feeling. What was he doing?mHe was Michael freakin' James Afton. He never had breakdowns. **Never**._

I'm fine **,** _he thought to himself._

**_I'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfineI'mfine_ **

_Michael tried to confirm this by looking at himself in the mirror in front of him to see how he was holding up._

**_I'm-_ **

_Michael stared at the face lying inside the glass._

_The teen did a doubletake._

_He put a hand to his cheek to make sure it was his reflection._

_The person in the mirror did the same._

_Michael was staring at Father._

_His mouth unhinged to let out a-_

_**RIIIIIIINNNNNGGGG** _

Michael jolted awake, the dream almost completely evaporating out of his mind from the sudden shock of waking up so abruptly. He found himself thrashing against the couch cushion, not knowing where he was for a split second. The teen jumped to his knees, eyes darted around frantically to figure out where he was - where Liz-

_**RIIIIIIIIINNNNNNGGGGG** _

The sound caused to teen to flinch again, and for his head to whirl around to where that tedious ringing was coming from, his paranoia suddenly skyrocketing. What was that sound? Why was it here? Was it-

_**RIIIIIIINNNNNGGGG** _

Then as if it was a satellite from the sky, the answer dawned on the teen.

It was their red rotary phone on the small table to the left of him.

His breathing slowed down.

 _Bloody Hell,_ _I may actually be losing it,_ Michael thought as he crawled across the couch and picked up the damn thing, just as it made sure to shrill one more obnoxious ring into his eardrums (he couldn't help but frustratingly squeeze it in a tight grip, getting ready to chuck it against the wall if it screamed at him one more time).

 _"What?"_ he growled out when it was up to his ear, trying to sound intimidating, but the question came out more-so like a grumpy old man who'd just gotten a knock on his door. The teen just barely managed to hold back a cough.

Ugh, who was even calling him? Hell, why did he even bother to answer? When he took one second to think about it, Father made the most sense - probably heard about what had happened at his crappy restaurant and now wanted to let Michael know-

"Mike? Is that you?"

Michael blinked.

"Jeremy?"

"Uh, yeah... hey man... is everything alright? You sound awful..."

The teen narrowed his eyes, a feeling of suspicion creeping deep inside his gut because of how unexpected this all was. "Why the Hell are you calling me?"

He was sure by the tone of his voice, Fitzgerald was rolling his eyes. "Mike, you seemed really on edge at school today."

 _"No I wasn't."_ the teen immediately hissed, feeling defensive. No reason for Jeremy to think something was wrong.

The blond teen sighed, seeming to know that his stubborn friend would probably just get angry if he continued pressing, "Whatever Mike... just... maybe don't go punching walls."

Michael scoffed.

"How are your hands anyway?"

Michael's eyes widened. That caught him off guard. "What?"

"Your hands," he repeated, "Come on, I saw how your right one was back at the old house... and at the end of the day, your left one looked like you spent all day punching a... oh wait."

"What the hell did you just say?" Was damn Jeremy just being sassy?

"Nothing, nothing! Just... how do they feel? Maybe you should go to a doctor about them or-"

"Why the Hell do you care?" the teen found himself snapping before he could think about it. And well, he'd been wondering that ever since his friend started not-so-subtly glancing at them.

_Why do you even care?_

Ugh... damn it...

There was a pause from Jeremy of... surprise? Hurt? Michael couldn't see his face so he wasn't sure... but... well, he shouldn't be.

Jeremy finally spoke. "Mike, I... why wouldn't I care? I mean... dude, your my friend... and, I just... that can't be good for you... and what about your throat? Maybe you should drink some water. You sound really dehydrated. "

"Wha... what are you, my nurse?" This wasn't making sense... he couldn't think of a single reason as to why Jeremy should be fussing over him ... how was Michael's wellbeing his concern? Why was he questioning him about all this? Was... was he seeing Michael as _weak?_ Pathetic? Frail? Like all the other idiots who had tried to pity him and tell him "it would be all alright?"

Well, as usual, Hell no we wasn't about to appear weak or pathetic... because that was the one thing he _wasn't._

"I'm fine." the teen seethed out through gritted teeth.

"Mike-"

"Goodbye," Michael concluded, already taking the phone off of his face.

"Wait, wait, wait!"

"Gah!'' Mike groaned, not really knowing why he was giving this weirdo the time of day, "Freakin' what? And if you say one more thing about-"

"Mike, Mike, it's past seven."

That actually managed to catch his attention, causing him to frown in disbelief

_Wait, it is?_

The teen turned his head and squinted at the digital clock next to their TV - and Jeremy was right - it was just past seven.

Damn, had he'd really been asleep for over two hours? It did explain why he didn't feel as wea- _tired_ as before. But still, he failed to see how that was important.

"So?"

"Well...I just... I know Immortal and the Restless is about to start..."

Michael blinked and glanced back at the screen of the TV - and again, Jeremy was right - some other soap opera was just finishing up.

And while the teen was of course happy to see the greatest televised show created was about to go on air - that suspicion was still tickling his brain like any annoying feather.

"Why do you bloody care, damn Fitzgerald?"

Jeremy's voice started to crack. "Uh... well... I - ah..."

Oh, haha. Yay.

_More stuttering._

"Hangin' up in 3... 2-"

"W-wait! I just... do you want to watch it together... just over the phone?"

Silence. That. _That_ for some reason, rendered Michael totally speechless.

"Mike?"

"I... what? Why the Hell do you want to-"

"Because I'm sitting here in my room with a plate of hot pockets doing nothing. Marianne and Tommy are busy, so... I just got nothing better to do. Now do you want to or not?"

Michael's brain started buffering, trying to come to a sensible conclusion. Again, again, _again,_ this didn't make sense to him... he couldn't contemplate as to why Jeremy would want to-

**_ggguuuuurrrrgggglllllle..._ **

Gasping, Michael bent over and clutched his stomach with his free hand as it let out a growl on par with a tiger being woken up from his nap. And like a kick to the nuts, the pain in his stomach suddenly grew ten-times worse - with his intestines feeling like a wet, moist cave that had just collapsed on itself.

Oh, man. His concerns were no longer on Jeremy.

When had he eaten today? _What_ had he eaten today? A couple of unflavored Eggos and a swig of coffee for breakfast? And at lunch, he took no more than a couple of bites...

His stomach again reminded him of what it wanted.

"Michael?"

"I'll be right back," he told Jeremy, almost completely forgetting what the other teen had just asked him.

"Oh, ok, we-"

Michael didn't hear the rest of what damn Jeremy said, because he was too busy trying to muster the energy to get up. His legs were shaky as-all-Hell from... well literally everything he'd put himself through - but still, that didn't make the Afton a damn toddler. So yes, Michael managed to stand up and get to get to the kitchen just fine, thank you very much. And it wasn't like it was - you know - _just in the other room_ \- so he could handle it.

_I'm fine._

The first thing Michael did was turn on the sink faucet, lean over it, then take over a hundred gulps of water out of the pipe, homeless style. If he needed air, the teen would simply take in a swift breath, then take a few hundred more gulps of the replenishing liquid. He finally stopped when his belly could practically be called a home for fish.

Still, he knew what he needed; food. So, wiping the water from his mouth, Michael then shuffled over the fridge and pulled out the freezer, digging through their countless amount of frozen dinners (which is what Father usually bought them for meals), until he found the most edible looking one - a turkey pot pie. He wasn't a fan of much-frozen junk, but at times like these, he really didn't care what went in his belly so long as it was edible.

The teen then tore the packaging off, and opened the microwave to-

Wait.

Chris.

He probably hadn't eaten dinner either.

Sighing, Michael went back to the freezer and dug through it again. No more pot pies. Letting out a louder sigh, he pulled out a steak dinner with some tater tots, unwrapped the damn thing, then stuck both meals in the microwave, setting the timer for three minutes.

As the teen stood there and listened to the small hum of the machine and watched the light spin around and around, he couldn't help but wonder if Jeremy was still waiting for him on the phone... Michael had been moving pretty slow, so he wouldn't really blame him if he hung up... maybe he should go over and check...

He shook his head to snap himself out of it. Why was he suddenly thinking about this so much? Just a couple of moments ago he'd felt nothing but annoyed skepticism at the wispy-haired teen for even calling him...and now Michael was-... well... Michael's brain felt like cake-mush anyways, and really, today had just been Hell, so he just felt out of it. That was all. And besides, what would he even say? "Oh, Jeremy, Jeremy! I was _so_ worried you'd forgotten about me," like he some sort of boy-crazy chick in a highschool drama? Please.

So, Michael continued to just stand there with a blank mind. And certainly not caring at all if damn Jeremy was waiting for him.

The timer finally went off. The teen then grabbed both meals by their tips and set them on the counter, making sure to peel off the plastic top to let it cool off before filling up a glass of water and pulling utensils out from the drawer.

Michael grabbed the pot pie with a shaky hand and the glass of water with the other, then shuffled past the living room, through the hallway, down to Chris' room.

Once he was up to the door, he knocked on it with his elbow. "I'm coming in to give you your dinner, brat."

No answer.

He usually didn't anyways.

Michael sighed, maneuvering his elbows against the doorknob until he got the door open, cracking it wider in order to peek inside, wanting to know if the little bugger was up to anything else tonight. Chris had actually run away by himself, so the teen didn't know what to think anymore. Hell... he hadn't even locked the door when he passed out... could Chris-

His uneasiness was immediately wiped out when he saw a small, blue figure, silently curled up into a ball on his bed, with the right side of his face buried deep into a tear-soaked pillow. The boy's side rose up and down at a steady pace, but Michael was unable to tell if he was awake or not.

"Food," he stated through the doorway, pushing it open more with his foot.

Chris didn't answer, which in all honestly still didn't confirm if he was awake or not.

Michael sighed, setting the pot pie, fork, and drink down on the floor like he usually did.

"If you haven't eaten this by eight, I will shove every last piece down your throat," the teen growled out before shutting the door, then locking it.

Again, he didn't know what to think anymore.

Michael then trudged away from his brother's room and back to the kitchen, using the walls as a slight support. Freakin' damn it. He already needed to sit down. His whole vision was starting to slightly tilt and blur up as if he was standing sideways, while his already wobbling legs, were again starting to feel like they were pieces of machinery rusting rapidly.

So as quick as he could work his legs, Michael got to the kitchen just fine, grabbed his steak dinner and fork, then proceeded to scuffle back to the living room and onto their green couch, just as the intro for The Immortal and the Restless started playing.

The rotary phone was also still lying there.

What had it been, almost ten minutes?

Well, not at all caring if bloody Jeremy was on the other line, Michael shoved a few tater tots into his food hole, then reached over and delicately picked up the phone with his bruised left hand and put it up to his ear, using his shoulder to hold it there in a somewhat awkward position.

"Jur?" he asked through a mouthful of tots, "Ya dare?"

"Oh, hey, you're back. And yeah, dude, I'm here."

Michael swallowed and rolled his eyes. "Couldn't tell."

"What did you have to go and do?" the other teen asked, ignoring the sassy remark.

"Just heat up some dinner for me and the little man," Michael replied, shrugging, now more focused on his food than anything else. Those tots had tasted great!

"Oh, cool. that makes sense..." he seemed to clear his throat. "Well, uh... are you ready?"

"Hm?" Was all the brown-haired teen was able to get out as he was chewing through a hunk of the steak.

"Immortal and the Restless - uh... you... I... wanted to watch it?"

If Michael was being honest, what Jeremy said just flew through one ear and out the other - because just like that, all of Michael's rational thoughts had been kicked out of the driver's seat and locked in the trunk with only those couple bites of food - with raw hunger causing him to completely forget the (kinda) argument he and Jeremy had just had moments ago, as if the reset button for his train of thought had just been smashed. Michael's stomach was practically doing all the thinking for him now - becoming greedier and greedier -demanding bite after bite with each swallow.

But on the bright side (wow, he really was out of it) the teen could already feel himself feeling better with each bit of nutrient falling down into the bottomless fish tank that had become stomach.

"Mmhm, sure," Michael replied without much thought.

"O-ok! Great, but um... I've never really watched it before, so you may have to explain some of the stuff to me."

"M'kay."

* * *

"I don't get it."

"What's not to get?"

"Why did they skip most of the vampire and witch fight so they can show Vlad struggling to choose between Clara and the Vampire King's daughter?

"What do you mean? Vlad hates her, but if he doesn't choose Aurora then they'll kill Clara! Are you even paying attention?"

"Yeah, yeah, I am. It's just confusing..."

"It's only season four!"

* * *

"I'm gonna go make popcorn. This next episode is really intense."

"But why doesn't he just-"

Michael got up before Jeremy could finish.

* * *

"Wait, wait, wait, am I reading this right? So now Clara has to choose between Vlad or the vampire hunter who wants to kill him?"

"His wife and daughter were killed by vampires Fitzgerald - specifically Vlad's ex-clan."

"I know, but then why's she even into him? And why's he into her? Just because they locked eyes before Clara fell off the cliff?"

"Just give it ten or so episodes, and then the chemistry's undeniable - but he's still inferior to Vlad the whole way through."

"This show..."

* * *

"Was that... was that supposed to be a plot-twist? How much of the hunter was himself and how much was it another vampire mind-controlling him to get close to Clara? And I thought only the witches could do magic... and hey, why does every side character in this show want to get in one of the main character's pants? Why do the-"

"Bloody Hell! Just pay attention for one freakin' second and it's obvious! Or even better, record the episodes onto a tape and watch it in order!"

"I... Dude, I still wouldn't know what's going on. There's so many contrivances"

"Well, then what the Hell's keeping you here if you hate it so much?"

"I don't hate it! To be honest, it's so absurd it's kinda funny... is that why you like it so much?"

"No."

"Oh, so... wait, how seriously do you take the story?"

"Is that a joke?"

"Oh geez... well, uh... nevermind..."

* * *

"Mike? Mike, are you there?"

The only thing the other teen could pick up was the sound of soft snores.

"Ah... well then... good night..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, Michael checked on Chris while the popcorn was popping. About half of it was eaten, and then water was mostly drunken, so he could accept that.


	12. Mood Swings

Michael rubbed at his eyes as his brain told him it was time to get up.

_You'll be late for school._

_Just five more minutes,_ he thought back, snuggling deeper into soft cushions. Not like he was the guy to give too much of a crap about school anyways.

The thing he was sleeping on definitely didn't feel like his bed, but honestly, Michael couldn't care less - it was soft, comfortable, and cozy - something his exhausted body had been longing for since... well... he wasn't sure...at least awhile. It just felt nice, and that was good enough for him.

The teen's mind felt strangely at peace. He didn't know exactly why that was, because although everything about yesterday felt fuzzy, something deep in his gut told him that bad and frustrating stuff had happened, and he should be angry at it, but... then had something good happened? Something actually kind of relaxing? There was a person that he could almost make out... oh, but this cushion felt so nice. He could deal with it tomorrow... or in a week... or whenever he got up.

If he ever did. Maybe he wouldn't have to... he could just sleep here forever and never think about-

"You'll be late for school if you don't get up, son."

That voice alone yanked the teen out of his blissful, dream-like state.

Michael's eyes snapped open.

_What the Hell?_

After a few startled seconds, he hesitantly brought his head up from the couch, looking in the direction the all-too-familiar voice had come from.

There, sitting to the left of him at their dining room table, casually reading the morning newspaper, was Father.

Michael shook his head lightly and blinked his vision clear to make sure he was seeing things correctly - but sure enough, he was right - and that itself made him feel as if he was staring at a wolf in the rabbit's exhibit - because Father was almost _never_ at home when Michael, Chris, and Liz were getting ready for school in the mornings, even when Mum used to live with them. And on the rare occasion that he was, it was usually just the older man downing a cup of coffee or shoving toast down his throat, exchanging a few curt words with them, then rushing out the door without saying much.

But here he was, sitting at their table with a plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs and toast, now dressed in a simple white, buttoned shirt and a pair of black suspenders, reading the newspaper as if he had all the time in the world.

Michael knew that something had to be wrong.

"Come sit down, son," the older man said without looking up from his paper, "so we can _chat."_

Oh boy.

Michael didn't move. His morning mind still hadn't fully woken up yet, so it was hardly able to make sense of what it was seeing.

 _"Michael James,"_ his voice clothed in a layer of frost, "did I not just tell you to come sit down?"

The teen took a deep breath. "Yes, sir..." he growled. Hell no he didn't feel like having a "chat" with his old man, but deep down, the last thing Michael wanted to do during his early morning was getting caught in a screaming fight with Father... if he could keep that from happening.

No promises.

So, letting out a huff, the teen then stood up from the couch onto wobbly legs. And while it took him a second to get his balance, Michael couldn't help but feel a sense of relief prickle in his chest when was able to fully walk over and sit down across from Father, instead of a shuffle that you'd see at senior centers.

Of course though, once Father spoke, all relief was sucked out of him.

"So," he started "casually," without looking up from his paper, "as I was in the middle of a very important call with my business partner, I was notified that Chris went to my restaurant. _By himself."_

For a split second, Michael was confused about what he was talking about.

Then it clicked.

And yesterday's events ran over him like a truck.

The teen sat there in some kind of dumbfounded glaze, feeling like his father had just dropped an anvil on his world. Yesterday's stressful events flashed in his mind in an almost overwhelming manner.

But that feeling of surprise soon turned to frustration. Damn it. Why the Hell was he even surprised that Father had found out? Why the Hell wouldn't some nosy prick call him to tell the man about poor, defenseless Chris?

Michael then opened his mouth to clarify _he_ was the one to bring the brat home, but his father beat him to it.

"And then I was told that you burst through the door, did not explain yourself, threw your brother - who was crying - over your shoulder, and left," he finally put the paper down, meeting his son's eyes, though his plain expression made it almost impossible for Michael to tell what exactly he was thinking. "Is that true?" Despite it being a question, Michael could tell by the tone of his voice what Father already believed.

The teen took a deep breath, "Who told you this?"

Father raised an eyebrow. "That's not what I asked you, Michael James. You may want to rephrase that."

Michael could feel his nails scraping against the bottom of the chair.

_Don't flip out, don't flip out, don't flip out._

Damn it, why did practically every conversation he had with his old man piss him off so much?

_Deep, freakin' breaths Afton._

He took one before he spoke.

"When I went to get the little bas- _Chris,_ " Michael snarled out through gritted teeth, just barely catching himself, "he wasn't there. A few girls saw the road he ran down, so I knew that bloody Fredbear's was where he most likely went. And then when I got there, a bunch of people were crowdin' around him. He was hidin' under a table and crying. He didn't look like he'd listen to reason, so I just dragged him home, and sent him to bed quickly after that..." the teen shrugged, his arms now folded," _so there."_ He purposely left out the blow-out he had on the twat. It took practically everything he had not to curse Chris's name like a seasick sailor.

But when he was done, Father simply sat there, tapping his finger on the table, looking like he was in deep thought as he stared back down at his paper. But Michael could tell he wasn't reading it. His eyes weren't focused on any words.

He didn't immediately dismiss what he'd said, so Michael didn't know what to think.

The teen tried his best to put on the toughest street face he could manage as he waited to see what the older man would say. But Hell, it's not like he was scared of how Father would react to all of thise. No. No, no, _Hell no_ he wasn't frightened of him... Michael wasn't Chris. He didn't cry if he got knocked down. He didn't bawl his eyes out if someone hit or yelled at him. He didn't ask if she'd come back when it was obvious she-

"Did he tell you why?"

"Huh?"

"I hate repeating myself, Michael."

Oh.

The teen grunted, realizing what Father was asking. "No... he just kept crying... but then..." Chris's fast words echoed in his mind.

_Isawsomeonegeteaten_

Michael shrugged. "He said that he saw someone 'get eaten,' but I-"

_"Excuse me?"_

The teen looked back at his father, who's face finally had gained some kind of emotion, but could only be described as... tense... or on edge. Not fear, though it was strangely kinda close (which was a bit uncanny to see on Father). His lips were pursed in a hard frown. His eyes hard and stiff as a rough sapphire that looked like it could shatter a diamond.

It startled the teen. "I mean... that's about the same reaction I had, but why-"

"What exactly did he say he saw Michael?"

"Well..." this was weird... why was Father acting this way? Was he worried that Chris yapping about man-eating animatronics would give his restaurant bad publicity or start rumors? (like they weren't getting bad already). That kinda made sense, But... Chris was just a kid... a stupid kid who'd once mistook a husky as a werewolf... surely Father knew that nobody would actually take the brat seriously. Right? Though then again... there were many other stupid kids like his brother all over this town.

Michael shook his head, "he just... it was kinda hard to understand him... little man was stuttering so damn much-"

"Get to the point Michael," Father growled, sharing his son's sense of patience.

Like Father like son, Michael returned the frustrated growl, "He just said he saw a guy sticking out of the Fredbear animatronic's mouth. Then I tried to set him straight and explain to his puny mind that he just saw someone getting helped into a costume."

The tensity in Father's limbs almost retracted immediately. He looked calmer. Though, like almost any time he showed emotions, it was extremely subtle, like trying to tell if a coat of paint was fully dry. The little twitches of emotion were something that just about anyone else would miss. Michael was only able to notice because he'd lived with him his whole life (but he still struggled to catch them sometimes).

His Father then nodded. "Did he believe you?"

"No, not really... little man was in nothing but denial."

Silence.

Michael waited for Father to keep asking him stuff, like, "why was your brother in denial," but he remained silent, again looking extremely buried in his own strange thoughts. Perhaps he knew how stubborn the brat could be when it came to crap like this.

"So..." Michael eyed him a bit skeptically, not sure if he was listening. "Can I get my stuff ready now?"

"You may."

Michael then stood up, both glad to be done with the conversation, and that it hadn't escalated like he'd been anticipating.

He was just about to leave when the question he'd had ever since he saw Father sitting there, itched at the back of his head, refusing to go away. This was all so strange that Michael had to know.

"Hey," Michael started carefully, "can I ask you one thing?"

"Go ahead."

He took a deep breath. "Why are you here? You're always in a rush to go to work in the morning no matter what's happening." It was a bit blunt, but - pfff, bloody Hell. When was he ever afraid of being blunt?

The older man then met his son's eyes, wearing an expression that read nothing but irritating. _"Because,"_ he started in a calm, but that parently not-really calm tone, "my superiors told me to take a few days off to look after my disobedient children... especially with Elizabeth disappearing. This was the last straw."

_Your fault._

Michael went stiff. "Oh."

Father raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to get ready or just stand there?"

"Hmph. Getting ready," the teen mumbled, already turning away from father.

"Oh, and Michael."

"What?" the man's son asked without turning around.

"If you want breakfast it's on the floor from last night. Either clean it up or eat it. Just make sure it's gone before we leave."

Michael was both shocked and confused by what Father meant at first.

That is, until his eyes landed the floor, where the yellow and white kernels layed there, splattered in little pellets, across the carpet, which he'd miraculously managed to not step on. Or maybe his brain had felt so undead he somehow didn't notice.

"Anything you have to say, son?"

Michael's blood boiled.

"No," he hissed out, stomping past the living room and the mess, into his own room before he did something he (might) regret.

Ha. Well, great. If waking up to Father's voice didn't put him in a bad mood, that certainly did.

Slamming the door behind him, the teen then threw off his gross, sweaty clothes and coat (that he'd fallen asleep in from yesterday), sculpting it into a crinkly ball, then threw it onto his unmade bed in the most aggressive way possible. Then when looking through his closet, He settled for wearing one of his grey punk rock shirts and ripped jeans, because well, he was just in that kind of mood.

Throwing his old, hand-me-down brown coat back on (because he knew it'd probably still be cold, and he didn't have a better one), and putting one of his many packs of gum into the pocket (not before popping a stick into his mouth of course), he made his pissed-off way back into the living room with his head down, not even bothering to comb his unruly hair or brush his teeth.

Again, that kind of mood.

Michael didn't look at Father when as he kneeled down and cleaned up the popcorn, dropping the kernels back into the plastic bowl. Because well, he could just imagine the smug-ass, maybe angry look on the old man's face if he sat there eating this disgusting crap, like some sort of dog who begged for table scraps.

(Also, no way in Hell he was cleaning it up just because his old man told him to, his stubborn pride reassured him like it always did. Nope. Michael just didn't want to step on the prickly crumbs and get them lodged into his feet like some Lego)

And sure, Michael still didn't feel great, but he felt a lot _better,_ so the teen could tolerate skipping breakfast this morning - nothing really too new to him. Besides, if he really wanted to, he could just swallow down some gum. Or chug an energy drink. Lots of options.

Still remaining silent, the teen then stood up and marched his way over to the kitchen sink once it was cleaned up, dumping the snack-food down into the disposal.

With that out of the way, Michael turned around, finally bringing his head up to tell Father he was about to head-

Michael froze.

Chris - who was fully dressed in the same clothes as yesterday - was sitting at the table, with a shallow bowl of Cheerios in front of him, spoon mid-way to his mouth.

_Wha... what the Hell? When the bloody, Hell did he get up? I didn't take that long!_

Chris noticed him staring.

The brother's eyes, locked, green meeting blue.

For that one second, the world seemed to stand completely still, - as Michael gazed at the still cherry- red face of the idiotic twat from yesterday - who had run off just to spite him.

Hell, if his blood wasn't boiling badly before, a pot of oil had just been injected into him from that reminder.

And Father's voice certainly didn't help ease the tension.

"Anything you'd like to say to your brother, Michael?" Father asked, now back to his newspaper.

 _Oh yes,_ the teen thought. The words going through his mind felt so foul that it'd turn fruit rotten.

But still, Michael wasn't stupid (like bloody Chris), so even in his common rageful state, he was able to contemplate that the question was simply Father testing him. A potential excuse for the older man to chew him out. And no in Great Britain's name, was the sour teen in the mood for _that._

So, gathering every ounce of control his fire-fueled mind could manage, Michael said the absolute _nicest_ thing that could come out.

"Morning."

Chris didn't respond. Not one word or blink.

The boy just stared. And of course, Father didn't care that Chris hadn't tried to be polite either.

And while that also frustrated Micheal, he also knew if he tried to say anything else to the brat, it'd probably come out as a scream with many curses - so, he simply turned his attention to Father, and asked-

"Are we allowed to head out now?"

"Actually," he said putting his paper down again, "I'll be driving you, and picking you two up for that matter."

The teen blinked. "Oh." Actually putting a single thought into it now, that did make some sense... Father was here, and they were already running a little bit behind. Hell, hadn't he alluded to that a few minutes ago when they were talking? Bloody Hell, he was missing everything...

"Speaking of which," the older man piped up again, now glancing at his watch, "we should get going. Are you done eating, Chris?"

The brat in question quickly set down his spoon, giving a nod.

"Take a few more bites while I get the car started," Father ordered anyway, as he walked past the boys and out into the garage.

That left Michael and Chris alone in the kitchen, with one leaning against the counter smacking on his mint gum, and the other staring into a shallow pool of soggy cereal. Neither really wanting to speak.

Michael was sure you'd be able to hear a pin drop.

 _What is going through your strange, little mind?_ the teen couldn't help but wonder as he again glanced over at the boy sitting at the table. Hmm... something about the brat was starting to bother Michael. Sure, Chris still had that same red, pathetic face on, but... well he just looked... empty. Emptier than the bowl that was sitting in the sink. What the Hell was this about? Had he gotten over yesterday already? That wasn't like him... maybe he finally realized that crying would change nothing, but... also not like him. Or... oh, come on, could he _really_ not accept that the damn yellow things were somewhat like the damn Disneyland mascots he hated? Or that he actually _hadn't_ seen a guy get killed?

Michael was about to say something, but the sound of a car honking prevented him from doing so. Hmph. That must mean Father was ready to go.

Chris must've heard it too, because the boy stood up from the chair, then grabbed his green backpack from the floor and slung it over his shoulders. He headed out the door as if Michael didn't exist (and without eating any more of the cereal, like Father had told him to do).

The teen followed out the door, his frown deepening. What the Hell? What, freaking now was he suddenly giving Michael the silent treatment? Upset at him for trying to knock some sense into that dumb, little brain of his? Or for being the one to drag his ass home when he ran off?

 _Well, to Hell and back you won't,_ the teen thought bitterly as he opened the door to the passenger's side. Hell no, Michael was going to let him get off that easily.

 _I might have to tell my friends about this,_ he thought.

* * *

The drive to Chris's school was short and silent, which was fine by Michael.

When they dropped the youngest off, Father didn't pull out until Chris was at least ten feet into the building.

But he didn't waste any time to drop a bombshell when they were parked in front of Michael's school.

"This is your last chance, Michael James."

Michael blinked, startled. "Huh?"

The older turned to face him, his voice cool and calculated. "Elizabeth is gone because of you, and Chris ran off right under your nose," he leaned in closer, so close, that Michael could smell... wait... wait, was that beer? "how could you let that happen?"

_Your fault._

A punch to the stomach.

Ragged breathing.

His pulse raced, the blood in his arms raced to his head like a furious river, clouding his sense of judgment.

"You-"

"Don't bother with that excuse, Michael. It's flimsy and you know it. We already discussed this. _I_ make the money to supply ourselves with what we need. _You_ keep them safe. How are you not able to understand that?"

_This is your fault._

Michael clenched his fists together, feeling that fiery urge to hit something, and well... if Father kept pushing his buttons...

 _"I"_ the teen snarled through gritted teeth, his fists an undead white, "am _not. One. Of. Your. Damn. **Robots.**_ " Father could control Chris using the boy's fear of everything. Father was proud of Liz for her ability to control others like him. So what did that make Michael? Ha. Practically a malfunction.

But Hell, even with saying that, the older man continued to gaze at him with some kind of indescribable, stone-cold intensity.

An eternity of nothing but tense silence passed.

"I know," he finally stated - but plainly, as if... as if _that_ was the damn problem. He somehow looked even deeper into the boy's challenging eyes, then leaned in ever-so closer, and - ok, even though the teen's mind was a burning storm, he could _definitely_ smell alcohol coming from the older man. _"Don't assume I'm joking."_

He wasn't. And Michael could tell that. The older man had stated it as if he was challenging Michael to talk back.

The teen didn't know how to respond. His temper was so high that he wasn't able to form coherent words, just jumbled-up, confusing feelings.

 _"Fine,"_ was all the teen was able to hiss out through his bitter tongue. And before he even knew if Father was going to reply, Michael promptly flung open the car door, jumping out, then stomped off with nothing but a toxic storm swirling around in his head.

Michael didn't know if the older man had left yet, but he wasn't following him - so the teen didn't give a damn.

He marched into his school, with just about everybody distancing themselves from him as if Michael had some sort of deadly disease - which was at least one good thing (and if his friends saw him, he wasn't aware).

_Elizabeth is gone._

**_Because of you._ **

_"Screw it."_

Michael knew what he needed to do in order to relieve his anger; what the teen almost always did when his body and temper felt like an elastic being pulled to its absolute limit - which was to _snap_ back ten times harder than the thing that'd bashed him - and hit, rip, or break something - _anything._ So, to Hell with what the teachers said if they caught him. Like they even gave a crap about students anyway. He could probably make a full-paged list of the stuff he and his friends had gotten away with right under their senseless noses.

So, the pissed-off-as-all-Hell teen ended up missing first period, spending just about all of his time outside by the dumpsters, behind the school, tearing apart any thrown-away notebooks he could get his aching - but just as eager - hands on, into hundreds of scraps that drifted off with the chilly breeze.

No teachers had spotted him.

None of his friends had either.

It was just Michael, and his familiar rage.

He didn't know how much time passed as he decimated the abandoned notebooks, but the Afton eventually did stop his massacre on paper. Though again, only when his body could hardly take any more. His vision had almost blurred to pitch black, with a sudden lightheadedness causing the boy to nearly topple over head-first onto the pavement, just barely using the school's brick wall to catch himself.

He wasn't sure how long he was hunched over, breathing hard while holding the spot on his chest where he could feel his hammering heart, but eventually, the bell to go to second period rang.

After a few more deep breaths, and making himself stand up straight and walk normally, the teen "casually" went back inside the building, made it to his locker for the crap he'd need, then straight into second-period class.

He went through a lot of gum and pencils that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I greatly apologize for the delay of this chapter. I didn't mean for it to take this long. I want to promise that future ones won't as long as this, or longer, but I just can't. That'd be a huge lie, because I never know what might come up, or how I'll feel certain days. Truth be told, it wasn't even really because I was that "busy." I just finally ran into a bad case of writer's block, which did make me feel pretty unmotivated. I kept on feeling unsatisfied with the chapter and how it was written, so out of all of them, I think this one's gone through the most rewrites.
> 
> And to be honest, I still don't know if I like it that much. But (and feel free to call me lazy), I've felt so frustrated with it that I just want to move on. I don't really consider this chapter to be too important anyways, just potentially some small setup.
> 
> Anyways, enough about me, so as always, thanks for reading and for giving this story a shot. Please treat yourself and have a fantastic day!


	13. Kinda Awkward

"Dude, are you serious?"

"Yep," Michael responded to Tommy Telford as he popped a chicken nugget into his mouth, now no longer aggressively chewing on his gum (for now). During this hour called lunch, he'd told his friends nearly everything about Chris running off to damn Fredbear's, and how he'd brought him home. But nothing about how Michael felt during the whole thing, his breakdown when he got back, or the blurred memories of he and Jeremy going back and forth about Immortal and the Restless. They were just unnecessary details that were known of their business (and thankfully, Jeremy didn't mention it either).

And when looking at their raised eyebrows as he finished the story, he could understand why they all looked so shocked. Chris was probably the last kid anyone in this town expected to go off by themselves.

 _Why did he?_ Michael again wondered as he swallowed down the nugget. Yeah, that kid loved Fredbear's, but Chris was about as paranoid as you could get about, well... just about anything that could come near him if he was outside by himself.

The pleasant voice of Marianne interrupted his thinking. "Why did you even bother?" she asked with her head tilted and an eyebrow raised as she thoughtlessly poked her fork at her caesar salad. "I mean, if _he_ decided to be a dumbass and run off all by himself, then he's the one who should figure it out... not you."

"Was it because of your dad?" Tommy blurted out before the English teen could answer.

Michael shrugged and scowled down, now taking a bigger interest in poking at his food. "Mmm... something like that..." Surely there was no shame in just saying that. While Michael couldn't exactly say he was at all opposed to lying sometimes, at the moment, it felt better admitting that than... not being _scared_ that his brother was lost, but just... a tiny bit _concerned_ that... well...

_How could you let that happen?_

But instead of catching the hint, damn Telford then had the nerve to show off that annoying smirk, seeming to think that pressing the angry teen's buttons was the funniest thing in the world. "Were you afraid of what he'd do?"

Michael froze just as he'd picked up another chicken nugget. He sat there in an angry silence for a moment, practically squishing the thing to mush in his hand. He looked the bastard square in the eyes, responding with a hard - _"No."_

Tommy shrugged, seeming unfazed. "If you say so..."

"What the Hell is that-"

"SO!" Damn Jeremy interrupted, slamming his hand down on the table in order to catch his friend's attention before things escalated, quickly changing the subject. "Are you telling us this just to vent and get your frustrations out? Do you feel any better? Or... do you wanna talk about it anymore?"

Michael couldn't help but scoff at that suggestion, rolling his eyes, thus breaking the venomous glare he was giving Telford. What did Jeremy think? Michael obviously wasn't the type of guy to use words as a coping mechanism, and while sure, he was more calmed down than he'd been just a couple of hours ago, he definitely still didn't feel 'better' about all this. "Again, no. I just wanna teach him a lesson for being a bloody idiot... and thought maybe you guys might want to help..."

_This is your last chance, Michael James._

_How could you let that happen?_

_And,_ he thought silently to himself, _for pretty much all of the blame getting thrown onto me for his mistake._

"Wait." Tommy said, forgetting about poking fun at his friend, as he now grinning in excitement, "So you mean... like a prank? Prank him?"

Michael again gave a shrug. "Probably. But I don't think _you're_ invited."

Tommy's jaw dropped (the shocked expression made Marianne and Jeremy snicker). "What?! Come on, man! It's been forever since we punked someone good!"

The English teen again glared back down at his lunch tray. "Hmph."

The other rolled his eyes. "Holy Hell, _fine._ I'm _sorry_ for the crap I said about you and your dad. It was _rude_ or some shit like that. Now will you just let me be apart of this?"

"Hmph... maybe. I don't really know for sure what we'll do yet."

"WHAT?! So I said sorry for nothing?"

"I didn't say we weren't doing it, idiot. I just gotta figure out a plan."

Marianne rolled her eyes. "So you're just assuming we'll go through with whatever you say?"

"Pretty much. I thought it could be fun, and like Telford said it's been a while," he then shrugged. "But whatever. If you don't want to you won't see me begging." Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, he really did _want_ to do it with his friends, because again, it had been quite some time since Michael pulled off a fun practical joke with them. The last he could remember was the group was finding snails and worms, then planting them in old Nettle's garden, and Mr. Brook's shiny, new briefcase - and that was weeks ago.

And the old house, well... he'd hardly spent any time with the others, and it wasn't even a prank, so that didn't count.

"Well," Jeremy piped up again, "I guess I'm down for just about anything. So long as it's well-thought-out."

Alright, so that made two. Michael then raised an eyebrow at the dark-skinned girl. "Well?"

She responded with her signature eye-roll. "We'll see. Just let me know whatever it is you want to do." She then let out a sigh. "But honestly Michael, the last thing you wanted to do wasn't very fun - at least for us. So I don't know about this either."

Michael sucked in a quick breath into his nose, feeling his heart squeeze tightly in on itself from that, but still, he kept on a straight face. "Trust me, whatever I come up with will be _a blast_. I know you guys don't see Chris that often, but scaring him for a good laugh won't be hard. At all." Michael considered this to be going easy on the little bugger. Sure, he knew he wanted to give him one Hell of a scare that was different from what he normally did, but he also knew he could do way, _way_ worse. He fully believed that Chris deserved some type of real punishment for the stunt he pulled, but it'd just be a prank he could laugh with his friends about. That was usually how they got back at anyone who got on their nerves.

It wasn't like he'd be taking Father's route.

Marianne again brought him out of his thoughts before raw anger could over-take him. "I'll think about it then," she said with a smirk and giving a familiar wink.

Michael couldn't help but smirk himself when seeing that smile, remaining mostly quiet as his friends discussed topics of their own.

* * *

When lunch was over, the group said their "see you later's", then split off in their own way like every other student, making their own way to their next period through the school's hallway.

At least, that's what Michael thought they'd all do.

"Hey, Mike!"

Surprised, the teen frowned as he stopped, turning around towards the direction of a familiar, friendly voice.

Tall, lanky, Jeremy soon caught up to his friend. But Michael soon noticed it was only him though, with is two other friends being out of sight.

"What?" Michael said with his eyebrows furrowed as other students strode past the only duo standing there.

Jeremy rubbed the back of his head, cheeks turning slightly pink. "Sorry, I just... now that the other guys are gone, I just um..." he shrugged, averting his eyes from Michael onto the floor. "Wanted to tell you I had a good time last night."

Michael blinked.

His brain shut off.

"Oh."

By mostly thinking about Chris and Father, he'd almost completely forgotten about the many hours they spent up late last night, going back and forth about his favorite soap opera.

"... yeah."

An awkward silence.

The shorter teen raised an eyebrow. "Is that all?"

"W-well!" he said stuttering (ugh), "I-is it... is it something you'd want to do again? I mean, I probably can't do it tonight because I gotta help my dad with some stuff, but-"

"No."

Jeremy blinked, looking a bit taken aback. "Oh... um... ok."

The other teen could feel his every inch of his intestines suddenly start to form into one gigantic knot when he saw how Jeremy's face fell as if he were a sad puppy. Alarm bells of confusion started to go off in the teen's head, his mind turning a blank page. What were you supposed to say when someone looked like that right in front of you? When Michael was with Chris when he was crying, his first instinct was to poke fun at him, but with Jeremy... and him looking like that... well...

He couldn't stand to look at that expression any longer, especially with the feeling in his stomach only growing worse.

"I gotta get to class."

"Uh... yeah," he put on a small smile. "Me-me to... so, uh... see you later?"

"Sure," he replied blankly, already turning away from the other teen.

As Michael walked away he found himself thinking about that whole awkward interaction. Last night still felt kind of fuzzy, but from what he could remember, Jeremy had mostly complained about the show the whole time... but... in a strange way, Michael hadn't feel upset about it?

Then why did he deny Jeremy so quickly? He thought back to their conversation. It was almost like this time, it'd been some sort of defensive instinct to immediately decline the offer. He hadn't even really put any thoughts about what came out of his mouth when he said it...

 _I'd probably just be wasting his time,_ Michael reasoned with himself as he approached history class. Again, the other teen clearly didn't like the intriguing characters or compelling plot...

Michael could feel his lips tighten as his mind came to a sudden realization - Jeremy must have just done it all out of _pity..._ that was the only option as to _why_ he was keen on watching it with him... and Michael's pride couldn't _stand_ for any sort of that vile word.

 _There's isn't any reason he should care if he doesn't like it_...

But deep down in his subconscious, maybe... maybe a part Michael had enjoyed it a little bit last night. Chatting about the show with Jeremy had triggered a somewhat nostalgic feeling in him... maybe it was because he used to also watch Immortal and the Restless with his mum... did that have something to do with it? And how he reacted?

Michael shook his head at his own ridiculous thoughts as he entered history and sat down in his seat in the back. This was stupid. If Jeremy thought it was just a dumb show, then he shouldn't be wasting his time with it. Michael was anything but a beggar. And he was certainly _not_ going to beg damn Fitzgerald to enjoy a soap opera he hated.

Besides, dwelling on this of all things was the most idiotic thing Michael could be doing right now. His friends were now expecting him to come up with a great prank to pull on his twat of a brother.

_But Marianne had said it wouldn't be fun..._

He scoffed.

Well damn it all then, she better hold onto those bright, neon scrunchies, because Michael James Afton was about to clobber them all with the biggest hurricane of _fun_ they'd ever seen in this boring town - no - their _lives._

Michael held onto that thought as he sat there through his teacher's lectures, letting his new goal temporarily distract him from everything he'd been dealing with for the past few days.

He didn't even accidentally break any more pencils for about an hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, AO3 friends. I hope this chapter was alright. I know it was a bit short, but I'll be going on a house-boat vacation with my family for about a week and won't be able to post anything, so I wanted to try and get ya'll a quick (but still hopefully good) chapter to enjoy.
> 
> Also, I promise that we're gonna get to another key part in FNAF soon... ish. And more Chris POV. I know its mostly been Michael.
> 
> Also, also, thank you all so, so much for your support on the last chapter despite me being kinda pessimistic. I appreciate the constructive feedback and kind words. So thanks!


	14. A Friend

As Chris was sitting in his seat as soon class started, he found himself hardly paying attention to whatever Miss Kelsey was teaching; instead, of course, his cursed mind wandered back to the early morning of when he'd first woken up.

Because, well, he wasn't exactly sure why he got out of bed this morning. He definitely didn't feel like going back to school... to those... those seagulls... But, despite that - call it a force of habit from the countless amount of times he'd still gone when he didn't want to - the boy found himself groggily rolling out of his white cushion when his alarm clock went off, then unenthusiastically shuffling himself out into the hall without even changing his clothes, so he could go to the kitchen to get some breakfast.

Of course, even that couldn't be normal.

The boy's entire body hardened to a halt just as he entered the living room when his eyes landed on a non-empty table (at least, a table that didn't have a glaring Michael).

Father was there, reading the morning paper.

"Good morning, Christopher," he'd greeted when his son arrived, looking up from his reading and at the boy with a forced smile.

Chris felt his mind go on its usual autopilot when it encountered something it couldn't comprehend.

So, he just stared.

Father let out a frustrated sigh for not getting a response. "I'm here because my work told me to stay at home for a little bit," he'd then informed as though he'd read his son's mind. Apparently already fed up with Chris's inability to respond to a smiling William Afton in the morning. "Now come get some breakfast."

Still, many habits were hard to break, so Chris remembered following those instructions, and doing everything in his power to _believe_ what his father was saying, even though the explanation made plenty of sense, so there was no real reason to doubt; for his mind not to wander back inside that rollercoaster of paranoic doubt which he wouldn't be able to get off of. Where he'd imagine Father building more-

_CcrrraaaccckK!_

Oh, right, then that happened.

Shocked, the boy had immediately looked down at his feet (which still had on the shoes he hadn't taken off), just for his eyes to land on the small yellow and white kernels from the plastic bowl just a couple of feet from him.

And again, his Father answered his question before he could ask it.

"Hmph," he'd grumbled at the sound of crackling, stepped-on snackfood. "Apologies, son. Michael, as usual, was incompetent and spilled his food all over the carpet." He'd shook his head and scowled in his typical way. "He's getting ready and will clean it up." he then shrugged, "And if he refuses, don't worry - I'll knock some hard sense into him."

Chris' frown had managed to deepen even more at the mention of his brother, and again being reminded of what had happened between the two of them yesterday... their fight...

The horrid coughing fit Michael had gone through...

Because of him.

Spiraling thoughts...

Knowing he'd have to further distract himself from these thoughts rather than fall back into a spiral, Chris then put every ounce of his mental power back into having a nice, normal bowl of Cheerios - the one thing in his life that still remained plain and simple. A thing that any normal kid would have on such a _normal_ school morning.

So he went and sat at their family table after gathering everything he'd need for his meal, first pouring a generous amount of cereal into the bowl, then milk.

The way the smooth, white liquid fell into the bowl almost had a hypnotic effect on his mind.

Pure white dairy...

It... it almost looked like a scoop of-

"Chris?"

The boy's head snapped back up at Father, awoken from his trance.

"Wha-?"

Father raised an eyebrow. "Do you usually have that much milk with your cereal?"

Chris looked down at his bowl, only to see that the milk was just a few centimeters from spilling over the rim.

"O-oh," he stuttered out in embarrassment, his cheeks growing hot, "uh... I-I-I-'m sorry..." he shook his head, the words not making sense, "I... I d-didn't... um... I-I... I didn't mean to-"

His father put his hand up, shaking his head.

Chris shut his mouth.

"Just eat your breakfast, Christopher," he sighed.

The boy blinked.

Breakfast. Right. He'd come to the table so he could eat breakfast in silence. Not to question why Father was here. Not to think about _snap._ Or feel guilt about Michael last night... just... just...

Breakfast.

Feeling a strange determination to do this one simple thing, the boy clenched his spoon with a shaking hand until his knuckles were white, lifting the utensil as if it was the finest butcher's knife that could chop his weak, little body in half at any moment.

But even with that thought in mind, and though his bowl was more than halfway milk, Chris managed to forcefully stuff the soggy Cheerios and white liquid into his mouth. He let the bland, wheat-filled taste envelop practically all of his five senses, as if the food alone was all he was aware of, or the mush was simply a protectful box for him to hide in. It was just him and his morning breakfast. No worries, no school, no _snap,_ no-

Michael.

Michael was leaning right against the kitchen counter.

Again the boy froze, with another spoonful of milk just halfway to his mouth.

He remembered their eyes locking.

And Michael's were so cold and dark...

Like... like...

_Snap._

Then Chris remembered just about everything going numb after that thought, as he continued to stare into two deep, blue pools.

Father had said something, then Michael, then they said even more stuff, but he couldn't remember what... just...

Numbness.

Then... hadn't Father asked him about finishing his cereal? Chris had nodded his head... he was pretty sure... then Father said something... but Chris only remembered staring at a white void.

When their father then left to get the car started soon after, as Chris continued looking down at his bowl, he almost couldn't believe he'd put the white, dairy stuff in his mouth.

Though before he could decide if it was too late to start vomiting, the sound of a car honking from the garage told him it was time to leave.

The car ride was silent.

Then he was dropped off.

And now he was here with his head down on his desk, thinking about his morning in an unnecessary amount of detail, because well...

He seemed to be thinking about a lot of his memories in too much detail recently, no matter how much he didn't want to.

_Snap..._

His desk was nearly soaked when the lunch bell rang.

* * *

Like the day before, Chris didn't eat much for lunch. Thankfully, there was no ice cream today, but he still felt too sick from the milk to eat more than half a burger.

So again, the lonely child found himself alone sitting on a curb when he went out for recess. But, Chris was used to being alone by now. Occasionally, he'd silently include himself in large group games in the past, but he knew that absolutely no kid would want to be anywhere near him after what happened Monday...

...

...

**Or so he thought.**

Because someone did join him on the curb.

The same dark green jacket that was too big for her. Muddy brown boots that he'd seen no other girl at the school wear on occasion. Soft, glistening brown eyes, and long, brown hair...

He gaped.

Charlotte Emily.

Her lips rose into a soft smile. "Hi, Chris."

The boy blinked up at her, taking in a shallow breath.

"Your back," was all he managed to whisper. Through everything that's been happening, the boy had hardly thought about the best friend Liz had since they were toddlers...

Charlie nodded, still smiling...

So many forceful smiles...

"Yeah... we were having a little beach vacation... ya know, since it's winter..."

"Oh."

"Mmhm... i-it was fun, but... but me and my dad decided to come home early... when..." she paused and bit her lip, smile disintegrating in the blink of an eye, as Charlie now seemed to be struggling to get her words out. "When we heard that... Liz..." The girl didn't finish, instead, letting out a sudden growl at herself in frustration, then put a hand over her eyes.

Chris flinched, taken aback by the abrupt change.

"Shoot... shoot, _shoot_ , _shoot_..." she muttered, shaking her head in what looked to be a mix of frustration and embarrassment. "I... I'm sorry."

Chris tilted his head, confused. "Why?" Was she too going to apologize like so many other adults had?

But instead, she sighed and brought a now teary-eyed face-up, and hugged her knees, then said something he wasn't expecting.

"I promised... I p-promised myself I was going to be strong f-for you... a-a-and not cry..." she sniffled back more tears and took a few deep breaths before speaking again. "Gosh, I just... it hurts so much, but... I can't imagine what's been like for you... and your family..." Charlie shook her head. "I just... I just wish there was something I could do... maybe I could've done... if..." she swallowed. "If I was with her..."

There was a raw silence in the cold air between the two (well, besides the other kids playing around them) as the boy let that sink in. It was all... so much for Charlie just coming back into his life so abruptly... and how long had she'd known? Or has been wanting to say that? It definitely couldn't have been very long...

_If I was with her._

Would that had made a difference?

Could Liz had been saved? Or convinced not to go in there?

 _But..._ apart of him countered, _what if it managed to take both of them?_

Elizabeth and Charlotte... both trapped inside a robotic prison...

"No," the words escaped his lips before he could think.

Charlie looked back at him, surprised. "What?"

"Uh..." Shoot. Not knowing what else to do, Chris simply shrugged, looking down at his feet. "I mean, you... you probably would've just ended up getting hurt too..."

Charlie didn't respond for a while.

Oh man... oh man, oh man... had he said the wrong thing? Had he hurt her feelings? Just make her grief worse? What if he-

"I think you're right."

His head snapped back to her. "H-huh?" Him? Christopher Afton? Being told he was right?

Charlie shrugged, wiping away the tears with her sleeve. "I mean... I still wish I was with her, but... gosh, my dad's just been through so much..." she shook her head. "With mom gone, I don't think he could bear to lose me too..."

_My mom..._

A memory sparked.

It was vague, however. He'd been pretty young, but there were foggy pictures of himself and his family attending a sad party that was called a "funeral," for a pretty lady with curly brown hair... the only other things that came to mind was that so many people were crying. Chris was a crier, but he really didn't understand why they were so sad... the woman looked so peaceful in that narrow, wooden bed. She looked like she was having the most peaceful dream in the world... he'd wondered why they were attending a party for someone sleeping.

But after that, he put practically no thought into the pretty woman, nor did he ever see her again...

But now he knew why.

And why he'd never seen someone look as heartbroken as Charlotte and Henry Emily that day.

 _And yet..._ he wondered as his mind continued to try and work the gears of the past, _hadn't Charlie still come over to their house the very next day? And played dolls or something with Liz?_

_Why would she do that if she was sad?_

"Anyways," the girl he was thinking about interrupted, calling back Chris's attention, "when... when I heard that she..." again she wiped away tears, "she... she got taken..." Charlie then reached into her jacket's pocket, "I... I thought maybe you'd like this," she pulled her hand back out and up to him.

Chris looked down at the treasure that layed in her palms.

Two small pieces of jewelry made out of beads.

The first one Chris noticed was a vivid hot pink and red with a larger, golden heart in the center.

The other, however, was the combination of purple and gold beads, and instead of a golden heart as the one prominent shape, there was a black star.

He tilted his head as he examined the jewelry. "Bracelets?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah... I made them," she shrugged. "I... I thought maybe... they could be a symbol of her."

Chris must've looked confused because Charlie continued to explain.

"I guess... I was thinking we could wear them... o-or at least keep them safe so..." she quickly wiped away more tears from her face, then let out in a small voice - "just to have a reminder of Liz to take anywhere, a-and how she always loved to make jewelry, you know?" his sister's friend shrugged. "A-also... my mom always used to say that giving gifts gives life, so..."

Chris remained silent, staring at the gift.

"I-I mean..." again, her shoulders moved up and down in unsurety, "i-if it's too much... then I get it... I know it-"

"No."

"Huh?"

Chris reached his hand over, carefully picking up the gold and purple one out of the surprised girl's hand as if it was the most precious gem on the planet, before slipping it onto his wrist.

He looked back down at the accessory, watching the complementary colors gleam off one another like two diamonds in the most perfect way.

Someone had given him a gift. The most precious present that had nothing but love and affection as the wrapping paper.

He didn't even feel a tinge of guilt that his eyes didn't see this beautiful thing as a reminder of Liz.

It was something that proved he actually wasn't alone in all of this.

"Thank you," he whispered, looking back up at Charlie. "It's perfect."

Her only response was an astonished breath that was so unsteady, it was practically the sound of a beginner walking across a tightrope.

But there were only a few seconds of that before her arms enveloped around the boy tightly, like a warm blanket protecting him from their wintery atmosphere and storm-filled thoughts.

Now it was Chris's turn to inhale a hollow breath.

His heart started to race, and a feeling so foreign yet so familiar leapt into the rapidly beating organ, tossing it back and forth like a ball, as if there was a game between children going on, with each one competing to make it fly higher than a plane and lighter than the clouds.

But yet, it was the most peaceful he'd been it what felt like forever.

Soon, his arms were around Charlie too.

The two children sat on the curb embracing the other for what seemed like an eternity.

Unstoppable tears flooded down their rose-colored cheeks, soaking entirely through both of the children's jackets - though neither cared.

But tears that were still filled with the raw, fresh emotions which were somehow as diverse and colorful and somewhat beautiful as a rainbow that peeked through the clouds after a hurricane.

Emotions that they allowed to flood into one another's grieving heart and through their veins, with the two letting their love and grief for a single, special little girl, entwine a new bond together, like the threads of a stringed friendship-bracelet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, isn't that great? Looks like Charlie and Chris found someone that they understand and are happy around!
> 
> Wouldn't... wouldn't it just be awful if... something happened to one of them?
> 
> PS  
> Also, wow has Fitzafton blown up! Seriously, when I first published the story there was like, four other Michael x Jeremy fics - and now there's nearly forty!


	15. New Plans

_"So what do you wanna play today Liz?" A brunette-haired girl asked her friend as she followed her through a hallway and up to the door of her bedroom._

_That was a question Charlie had asked her best friend almost every day after school for years, since she knew it made Liz happy to be the one in choosing what to do because that'd put her in the best mood - so seeing her happy made Charlie happy - of course, just as long as they were doing it together, and it was nothing her father would disapprove of._

_"Well..." the ginger girl hummed, going into deep thought, and at the same time, turned the doorknob to her room before pushing it open._

_Her eyes lit up in inspiration like the light switch she flicked on, telling Charlie she knew exactly what she wanted._

_"Oh, I know! It's lovely outside, so we should go pick-"_

_Liz suddenly froze, with her words catching in a way that sounded like being hit in the throat._

_Charlie felt herself frown, both confused and worried by the abrupt pause._

_"Uh, Li-"_

_The ear-curdling shriek of someone who'd just seen a murder take place erupted from her friend's mouth._

_Charlie jumped back and gasped from the glass-shattering noise, nearly screaming her head off herself, but just barely catching it - because what was more important was why her friend screamed. So as soon as the ringing in her ears stopped, the girl immediately whisked up to Liz, needing to see what was wrong with her._

_"Liz?! Lizzie, what's-"_

_Charlie's eyes suddenly landed on what lay in the middle of her friend's room, and she too, again nearly shrieked from the monstrous sight._

Holy mother of...

_To put it the most simply, what laid on the floor was the animatronic fox toy Charlie's dad had given Lizzie as a birthday present many years back. The Afton girl had openly complained that the new "Foxy the Pirate" character from the new "Fredbear and Friends Show," was in her words, "Too ugly, mean, and scary looking," so Charlie's own robotic-smarts father had built a small, pink and white "girly" version of the original character just for the little Elizabeth._

_She and Chris had even gotten into a small argument later about the thing's gender._

_"Well, it **is** Foxy, so isn't it still a boy?"_

_"No, dummy. It's the better version, so obviously, she's a her."_

_"But... it's Foxy..."_

_"A **girl** Foxy."_

_"Mm... I don't get it..."_

_Charlie hadn't seen the thing in forever, as Elizabeth now mostly kept it stored in the upper shelf of her closet as soon as she got bored with it._

_Yet here was the pooch, lying back in the center of its master's den._

_Or at least what was left of it._

_The only thing that still made it remotely recognizable as a fox was its face - and while it maintained its chipped white skin and bright pink snout with rosy lipstick and cheeks - pretty much everything else had been completely stripped off, revealing nothing but a bare, wired endoskeleton as its body. Plus, it only had one eye now - a single, glassy yellow sphere, that stared at both frightened girls with a strange gleam._

Except... _Charlie realized as she couldn't help but notice more details,_ that can't be its right body...

_First off, none of the limbs were in the right places. Both arms were located on its lower half, just right above its... wait, three legs? Oh gosh, yes - the thing had **three** legs now, all openly sprawled against the floor. And if that wasn't enough, Charlie suddenly realized there was also an entirely different endo **head** \- which too had a single yellow eye - that stuck out just below the mangle's pink bowtie._

_And so it was even worse than Charlie first thought - because instead of simply taking off the animatronic's skin shell - whoever did this also went through the hassle of reattaching old and new parts in the most chaotic way possible, like a group of sugar-high four-year-olds had tried - and failed - to build their own animatronic out of any robot parts they could find._

_Sure, the toy was pretty old and got its fair usage, so it definitely hadn't been nearly as pretty or shiny as it once was, but this..._

_This was **horrible.**_

_The sound of heavy breathing caught Charlotte's ears, distracting her from the analysis going on inside her brain._

Uh, oh... _she thought._

_She hesitantly turned her head back to Elizabeth, whose face had every ounce of fear - that anyone would've thought had been there was wiped clean - and was now nothing but pure **fury.**_

_Then, in the lowest, most chilling tone Charlie had ever heard out of her, Liz hissed out a name._

**_"Michael."_ **

Oh geez...

_The Emily knew what was about to go down._

_Desperate to keep her friend calm, Charlie clasped her hands onto Liz's shoulders - though the ginger girl continued to stare at her demolished toy with those same rageful eyes._

_As if her friend wasn't even there._

_"Liz, listen." Charlie started quickly. "Let's just bring it to my dad, ok? I bet he can-"_

_WHOOSH!_

_Elizabeth whipped around before she could finish - causing Charlie to flinch back, with Liz's long, red locks slapping across her face - all while the furious girl stomped down the hall and right up to her elder brother's room, shoving it open with a loud SLAM!_

_Charlie cringed, but still followed, just to hopefully prevent her friend from doing something she'd regret later._

_Though did Elizabeth Afton have regrets?_

_Well, Michael was actually in his room. The teen sat on his bed cross-legged, smacking on gum while also doodling in what looked to be a small notebook._

_When the door slammed open, Michael brought his head up, staring at the sister who just made the loud noise - though... to Charlie's surprise, he looked... **eerily** calm for his personality. Especially because the girl knew Michael was like a grumpy bear in its cave when it came to pretty much anybody barging into his room without his own consent._

_Oh... she could still remember how **angry** he'd gotten when he found a younger Charlotte using his desk for a hiding place during a game of hide-and-seek - while **also** looking through some sketchbooks that were just lying out in the open as she waited to be found by Liz (with her natural curiosity demanding she just take a peek)._

_So then, still with that uncanny calm expression and a sly smirk, he raised an eyebrow._

_"Somethin' startle you, sis?"_

_Liz took in a deep breath and actually **growled** , lifting her head in defiance, as if she'd already won. "You think you're so funny, but I'm gonna tell Daddy as soon as he gets home, dummy! I'm gonna tell him you destroyed my fox, then you're gonna be in so, so much trouble because he'll get **so, so** mad!"_

_But what seemed like to Liz's surprise, Michael still didn't look any less confident, because he actually **snickered.**_

_"You're actually gonna go waste your time and go run your mouth about a broken toy you don't even use anymore?"_

_"Well, I ... yes! Yes I will! You... you ruined it!" the girl stated, actually appearing to have lost her confidence for a single second._

_Michael rolled his eyes. "I guess I wouldn't expect anything less from you, but..." he then shrugged. "Dad didn't even make the bloody thing, so why do you think he'll care?"_

_"Because! ...um," Liz put her head down as if searching for an answer on the carpet, "because he and Henry-_

_"What? Because they're **best friends?"** Michael sneered in a mocking tone. _ _He then scoffed. "Please - if you're going to throw a fit to him about something that's broken, at least make sure it's something our bloody dad made or bought."_

_Then as fast as lightning strikes, the ginger's anger returned, pointing her finger straight back at her brother like it was a sword he should feel threatened by. Her face almost turned as red as her bow._

_"I'm not throwing a fit over anything!"_

_Michael's smirk somehow grew wider - which was the expression Charlie imagined a poacher to wear when his first-ever, hand-made rooky trap worked._

_"Nah... you'll go and cry about how your old, baby toy's broken."_

_Fuming, Liz stamped her feet on the ground._

_"I'll show you! I'll have Daddy build the biggest, prettiest robot you've ever seen! Just for me!"_

_Michael snorted, returning to his sketching. "Ok, sure."_

**_"UGH!"_ **

_Before Charlie knew it, she'd been taken by the hand, and was now being dragged away from Michael's room, and through the house._

_"Wait, what? Where are we going?"_

_"We're gonna go angrily pick flowers and wait for Daddy to come home. Then I'm gonna tell him how great a robot doll would be for me!"_

* * *

"A dinner? Tomorrow?" Michael questioned as the trio exited the car, Chris closing the vehicle's door behind himself.

"Yes, Michael, I think I just made that rather clear."

"Ok, sure, but why are we coming? Like you'd want to take us to a fancy restaurant." the teen spat out rather bluntly.

And just as bluntly, Father responded with a cold, "Believe me, I don't _want_ you to come, but Henry insisted." as he entered the kitchen and up to the fridge.

Michael frowned, following inside. "Wait, Henry? He's back?"

"Yes, and he continued to pressure me about meeting up together on the phone while you two were at school." Father sighed as he brought out a can of beer. He cracked it open and took a long, drawn-out sip.

Michael let out a huff, appearing indifferent.

"Hmph. Fine. Well, if you're here, then I'm gonna go do somethin' with my friends." Before Michael was even done with the sentence, he was making his way towards the front door.

Father let out an annoyed grunt, setting his drink down, glaring a layer of frost at his eldest son. "You're not going to hang out with your gang, Michael."

There was a brief pause of what seemed to be surprised before the teen spun back around on his heels. "First off, we're not a bloody gang - and second - why not?! What else am I gonna do?"

"Clean the kitchen," he stated without missing a beat.

Michael's jaw dropped. "You're joking."

"The supplies are under the sink, as you know," he took another sip of his beer. "Or you can pull weeds - and also rake - so long as you do all of it."

"Ha! Oh, yeah? Then what's he gonna do?" the teen sneered, pointing at the boy who was watching their whole argument go down from the kitchen table he was standing by.

Chris instinctively flinched from the gesture. Of course, he really didn't like for his brother and father argue, because... well it reminded him of his worst home memories; however, he'd decided to stay and listen to their going back-and-forth, only because he too was curious about the special dinner Father had mentioned on their car ride home. If Charlie was going to be there, then... he'd actually be... happy to go...

Why did that feel so strange?

In response, Father tilted his head, staring at his son with what looked to hold the slightest hint of mild _amusement_ , "It's none of your concern right now."

Somehow, Michael's jaw was able to hang down even further, and Chris was almost sure it was about to actually fall off and hit the floor. The amount of utter surprise and almost... look of _betrayal_ on his face was shocking and to say the least... confusing.

Chris didn't understand why what Father just said seemed to be such a shock for Michael. There was quite a chunk of him that considered it to be true. Father was here - and while yes, the older man was not somebody Chris wanted to be around too often (especially now), that wasn't the point. The point was that Chris knew Michael only "watched" after him because he'd been assigned to once their mum left - and Chris could state for a fact that his brother hated to watch him, so...

Weren't even chores better than him?

Then again, whenever Michael was in charge of "watching him," it's not like he'd do stuff with Chris, or really, would _watch him_...

Well, speaking of Michael, the teen remained there in another tense silence in a familiar way: with his lips pursed into a deep scowl, face a tomato red, and both of his injured hands clenched into tight, ghostly white fists. Chris knew that look all-too-well - Michael wanted to _argue._

_Please, **please** don't..._

Father seemed to realize this too, because sighing, the older man stood up, setting down his beer, then strode up to his son with an expression that could only be described as disappointment. As if Michael had just struck out and actually snapped back with a sassy remark for what the older man had required of him to do.

Father was now standing right in front of the teen, so Chris couldn't see Michael's face anymore, and thus had no idea how his brother was reacting.

But then, ever so gently (and just to add to the boy's confusement), Father took Michael's left hand... leaned down... and... _whispered_ something into Michael's ear? It definitely seemed that way with how close he was to it, but Chris couldn't tell, nor could he hear.

And again, because Father was blocking nearly all of Michael, it was pretty much impossible to tell what he was thinking.

 _At least he hasn't said anything too bad..._ Chris thought.

Though after what seemed like forever, Father finally released Michael's hand, and took a couple of steps back, standing there like he was patiently waiting for a machine to boot up.

And Chris could finally see his brother's face - who was now staring at the floor.

But it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

He certainly still looked tense, but...

For once, unpenetrable walls were put up in front of his eyes.

However, he didn't stand there for very long, because just a few moments later - while cradling his left hand into his right - walked off, outback into the garage, without saying another word.

He hadn't even given Chris a glare.

But for what felt like for once, actually feeling grateful to hear his voice, Father broke the silence before the boy's imagination could start running wild about the confusing stance that had just transpired.

"Please don't ever let Michael bother you, son," he stated, joining Chris by the table.

The boy didn't speak.

What had Father told Michael?

"He thinks he can get away with anything - because his mother let him do whatever he'd like." Father let out a sigh. "He may look like me, but he inherited all of her bad qualities."

He then leaned down to Chris's level, and put a hand on his shoulder, smiling, "But you're a good boy Chris - you listen. You always have."

The boy stared back up at his Father.

Was it wrong to absolutely hate seeing someone's smile?

Because absolutely everything about the expression the older man wore: his glassy eyes, the thin line of a smile, the subtle _squeeze_ he gave Chris's shoulder - as if trying to prevent the boy from running - screamed the word _wrong_ \- like looking at a human... but... at the same time they _weren't_ human? Was... was that right to describe it?

Shoot... he wasn't making sense again... why was he again being like this when Father showed compassion?

Father then hummed...

And wrapped his arms around the boy...

At first, Chris was confused about what was happening.

And it took several seconds before he realized he was being hugged.

And the usual question repeated in his mind-

**_Why?_ **

Suddenly, a low whisper, like a frigid breeze that carried frost, blew into his ear.

"I love _you_ above any person."

Yet another thing Chris in the past would've gaped from hearing, stuttering out his words in a jumbled, confusing mess.

Yet right now... now nothing but a dry pot of emptiness sat in the boy's stomach; though, for some reason, Chris still felt like he could vomit...

Because he'd seen how he was with Elizabeth compared to him...

_Snap._

The boy cringed, letting out a whimper that his father apparently didn't hear.

Chris looked back down at his beautiful friendship-bracelet for assurance, before also enclosing his arms (as far as they could go) around Father -mainly to make the whole atmosphere feel less awkward, but also, hoping like earlier - he'd be gifted with that same feeling again.

...

Chris wished the hug with Charlie had never ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, hope this chapter was alright! I'll be honest, this was probably one of my favorites because I had a blast describing Mangle, hehe. I didn't think this chapter would come out this soon, but once I started writing it I could hardly stop - because again, this was one of the funniest to write!
> 
> Thank you for making it this far, and as always, have a great day!


	16. Dinner with an Old Friend

_A young boy sat inside his room and at his desk, drawing on a piece of paper; though, no longer bothering to ignore the yelling that came from the master bedroom._

_Because what was the point? His parents hated each other - and he knew that. He wasn't sure how long he'd known, but he did._

Hmm.. _. he thought as he scribbled in some more color. Actually, he'd probably stopped pretending they loved one another when he saw how pathetic his little brother was when either he lied to himself or cried about it._

_"Waah, Mikey, why do they get mad?"_

_"Oh, yay, there was no yellin'... yay, yay no yellin' this time!"_

_"Boohoo, Mum didn't tuck me in tonight."_

_What a joke._

_Then as if on cue, the boy heard the loud SLAM of a door being thrown open. Angry, stomping feet followed soon after into the bathroom, followed by what was undoubtedly a rattle of a bottle of pills being open, then consumed._

_Michael stopped drawing._

_It wasn't helping._

_The boy stood up and walked over to his closet._

_He grabbed the first thing he saw - which was an old, stuffed grey dog he'd named Sparky. One of the first toys he'd ever owned._

_He stared at it for a moment._

_Then his ears caught more stomping up to the living room, the front door also getting slammed open._

_Hugs from something that wasn't even alive didn't make him feel better anymore either._

_He ripped the dog's head off._

* * *

_Remember what people turn into when they become too upset, **son.**_

_SQUEEZE._

Michael instinctively clutched his left hand, the phantom pain returning.

He pursed his lips into an angry scowl, just holding back a choking-like gasp from the sudden shock that spiked up his splintered bones. It was almost as if he was back in the middle of the kitchen, with Father's blue eyes of acid boring into his skull. And those eyes alone had said everything - they were _taunting_ him. Again, already daring him to fight back, while also saying, _you know you won't win_.

The teen let out a huff, leaning his head against the car's interior window.

Damn _all_ of yesterday.

Michael hadn't even said a damn thing. Not a single word or cuss. Had he wanted to tell his old man to stick the chores up his ass? Yes. Had he wanted to just run out the door to meet up with his "gang", knowing that Father probably wouldn't be able to catch him? Absolutely.

But he hadn't.

Why? Because...

_This your last chance, Michael James._

_Remember what she-_

He squeezed his hand into an agonizingly tight fist, pushing that thought down to Earth's core.

Though now, apparently even Michael _looking_ like he'd want to argue was no longer acceptable.

And despite what he knew many thought of him, the teen wasn't bloody stupid - he was aware of how bad his temper could be. And while every-once-in-a-while he could hold his tongue - like he'd done yesterday - _hiding_ his rage or displeasure as if it wasn't even there was almost literally - an _entirely_ different animal.

And his jacked-up hands certainly didn't help the first chore of pulling weeds get completed any faster. Or raking leaves with their old-ass rake. Or-

"Michael James. Stop staring off into space. We're here."

The teen blinked out of his thoughts, head snapping up. His eye's view shifted to the outside of the car's window, only to see that Father was correct - they had arrived and were now parked at the side of what had to be the restaurant they'd been invited to.

Michael groaned, running a hand down his face. Holy Hell, how long had he been staring off like some stoner? It was darker than when they'd left, so... an hour or two? Bloody Hell, he wasn't even sure how long the car ride had been...

Shaking his head at himself, the teen then stepped out of the car, deciding to just inspect the bloody building further before he changed his mind on holding his tongue.

Well for starters, the exterior was pretty simple, but simple in a way that screamed and expensive interior.

The building was large and rectangular shaped, with every square inch of the walls colored an obsidian black. However, that did not at all make the structure sink into the dark, evening atmosphere like a drop of water falling into a puddle of ink. Quite the opposite actually - because bright, yellow lights shone from every clear window, creating a shining halo of golden light that lit up nearly the whole parking lot, making it stick out from its neighboring buildings. And through its clear, glass windows, Michael could make out the dark silhouettes of men and women enjoying their dinners, with what he was sure to be waiters dashing back and forth with different trays of food.

It made more sense as to why they had to dress up for the place now. Still, Michael simply settled for a grey, buttoned-down oxford shirt and dark brown pants, as well as shiny black dress shoes he hadn't worn in... uh, he actually couldn't remember the last time he dressed this nicely.

Chris wore pretty much the same thing - except his dress-shirt was pale blue and his hair was combed down more. Had Father done that? Maybe... though he definitely wasn't the type to ever do his children's hair.

 _Ugh,_ he thought. _It doesn't matter._

As the trio walked towards the double-door entrance, the teen looked up, reading the name of the restaurant he hadn't even bothered to learn - which was written in big, swirly, red letters.

_**Ruby Dawn.** _

Yeah. That sounded fancy too.

When they arrived at the doors, Father opened it, holding it open as Chris walked in.

Then headed in himself just before Michael could step inside.

 _Which is fine,_ the teen told himself as he pushed open the non-heavy door, gritting his teeth against one another. In fact, he was _glad. Thrilled._ Because he didn't need anything from Father.

_Hell, he probably **wants** to see how far he can push me before I crack from a pin dropping._

Ha. Well, Michael would either hold it together, or lose his shit in a way so spectacularly, that his crummy dad would be left utterly speechless.

The teen continued to follow his family through the restaurant, maneuvering past white-clothed tables and black-suited waiters carrying plates of meals that one could pass off as art in a museum.

Man this place really _was_ nicer than anywhere else he'd eaten.

Still though, maybe Michael would've once gawked at the many small, chandeliers that lit up the dining room over every table. Or the luscious, velvety red carpet he was stomping across - having the sudden urge to lean down to feel how soft it was with his hands. Or even the large bouquet of red and white roses that were the center-piece of each table. Or even... oh, were those crumpets with butter he was smelling?

Ok, so maybe he was gawking a little bit.

Ugh, anyways, eventually he spotted Henry and Charlie, who were seated at a circle-shaped table near the back with three other open chairs. Yada yada, the walked up, blah blah, they sat down. Father across from Henry, Michael in between them, Charlie to Henry's right, and Chris right next to her.

Henry - who had put on a dark yellow sweater-vest over a thin, white shirt for the evening - gave a big smile. "Will! Glad you could make it."

His - white-polka-dots against a ruffled black dress - daughter gave a wave and smile too

Henry was kinda what you expected your average 30ish dad to look like. Nothing about his appearance really stuck out much. He had that plain, clean-shaven, brown hair of the average joe out on the street with his family.

Still, Michael had known the guy long enough to know he was certainly a genius when it came to robotics.

Though if Michael were his dad or Henry, he wouldn't have spent that brainpower on children's animatronics of all things. Their passion for it was never really something he understood. Yeah, the Foxy character was cool and made it fun to mess with Chris, but that was about it for him.

For the most part.

"Henry." Father then greeted back rather cooly as he glanced down at the large, menu in front of him.

His friend's smile faded, eyes slightly widening in realization before looking down in what seemed like shame. "Ah, I'm sorry Will... I should've been more sympathetic... I thought it'd be better if-"

Father put a hand up, shaking his head. "No, it's fine, my apologies. Thank you for the invite." He then sighed, glancing at the younger guests. "Though was it really necessary to bring children to a place as nice as this?" he asked, slightly gesturing around with one hand.

Henry shrugged. "Well, it's been a while since we've done something together - and... after everything that's happened, I think they probably need a little break too."

"...I see."

Michael rolled his eyes.

"Excuse me," a voice cut in.

Michael looked up to his left. Standing there was a large guy with black, thinning hair and a bushy mustache the same color. Their waiter. Though the black and white suit kinda made him look like a huge penguin.

"What would you folks like to drink this evening?"

"A bottle of your best wine," Father said almost immediately.

Henry frowned. "Uh, I don't know about that... are you sure, Will? Aren't you driving?"

"I'll pay for it," he stated as if that's what Henry was concerned about, then turned his attention back to the penguin waiter. "Wine."

 _It's a miracle we got here in one piece,_ Michael silently thought to himself. He'd seen the beer cans in the trash after school. And the smell of the car, in general, was a pretty big hint.

The guy nodded, scribbling down the order on a small notebook. "Certainly. And everyone else?"

Henry sighed, seeming to let it go.

Michael also knew Henry was a guy with way too much patience - that he himself could only dream of.

"A diet Pepsi, please."

_Gross._

His father's friend then put his attention towards the scowling teen himself. "Please, Michael. Order whatever you'd like."

Michael couldn't help but glance at his father, wanting to know if he'd disagree. To his surprise, he didn't even look the slightest bit annoyed. Face stoic as he continued to eye the menu

_Probably just cares that he gets his booze..._

"Cherry Coke," he ordered with a small smirk.

"A lemonade," Charlie said next.

Then it was Chris's turn.

"Mm... ahtu..." He mumbled, staring down at the table.

The waiter leaned in a bit closer. "Excuse me?"

"Chris," You-Know-Exactly-Who sighed in a tired tone, putting a hand over his eyes in embarrassment, "we've talked about mumbling. Chin up, and look him in the eye. I won't tell you twice."

Chris bit his lip and his eyes popped, looking like he'd just been asked to jump on the table and strip down. Though seeming to decide that obeying Father would be better than a lecture, he did listen - sorta. The boy lifted his head up in the direction of the waiter - though his eyes were only able to reach the guy's large gut - speaking ever-so louder.

"S-sorry... water... please..."

Henry frowned. "Are you sure Chris?"

The boy in question nodded, eyes already off their waiter, and back down at the table.

"I'll be back with your drinks shortly," the waiter said before walking off.

"So..." Henry started after a few moments of awkward silence. "If you don't mind me asking Will... have you been informed on anything about Elizabeth?"

_Your fault._

If Michael had a drink he would've spat it out. The teen felt his eyes instantly spike towards Father, feeling his engagement in the conversation immediately shoot up from zero to one-hundred. Ever since he'd overheard Father's conversation with the detectives, the teen had been eagerly awaiting to see if he ever brought it up. He thought it was weird that he didn't, but lately, Father didn't seem to want to share anything with Michael that would make him happy.

The older man took a drawn-out breath before starting. "Well, old friend, just last Sunday I got a call from the detectives. They informed me they believed they had a lead."

Michael dug his finger-nails into the cushioned chair, trying to seem calm, while also paying attention like he was about to hear the news of whether or not a meteor was going to crash into Earth. But wait... was he shaking? Why did it feel like he was suddenly shaking? And his insides... his insides were tumbling together, rubbing against one another like the rough feeling of sandpaper. And the room... when did it get so hot? Sweat was dripping down his brow and soaking his shirt, and-

Michael kicked himself. Absolutely _none_ of that mattered. He knew what - _who_ mattered - and right now, he was being the bloody idiot people saw him as. He was-

Then those terrible words punctured his gut as if the chandelier above had fallen on top of him.

_"However,"_

_Your fault._

For a brief moment, Michael sat there in a dead-eyed stare, feeling nothing.

"It was a false alarm. The man they found was certainly not behind the kidnapping."

_How could you let that happen?_

Then it hit him. Oh, it _hit_ him. It hit him worse than a punch to the gut. Worse than an anvil getting dropped on top of his world. Not even anger was the dominant emotion.

Because what he felt...

Was _fear._ Fear that...

_"She's not coming back..."_

It came out before Michael could stop himself.

Everyone looked up at him, with shocked expressions of unexpectedness painted all over their faces. Except for Chris, sharing just about the same expression as his brother.

But soon, Father's eyebrows creased, that frown returning. He took a deep breath before responding, gripping the table as though he was restraining himself. "Michael James Afton. Are _you_ working on the case?"

The teen too took an interest in the table.

_"No..."_

"No, _what?"_

_"No, **sir."**_

_"Were you there?"_

Michael was about to find out if he had the strength to break a table in two.

 _ **"No sir,"**_ he stated again, this time practically growling through his teeth.

"So do _you_ know specifics?"

"No, but-"

"Then how can _**you** of all people, say the likely-hood of whether or not _Elizabeth will come home?"

He didn't answer.

Michael's breaths came out as shakily narrow puffs of air, filled with a new sense doubt, as he tried to find the right answer to the questions. "You... _I..."_

Father...

Father was...

A dreadful realization smacked.

Holy crap he was right.

_He was admitting it..._

And Michael absolutely _hated_ that he was.

Though right now...

The teen's paranoid-fueled mind would latch onto any source of hope, because...

_This. Is. **Your. Fault.**_

Michael snapped out of it.

_**NO.** _

He looked back at Father...

He had that look in his eyes again...

_He'll just get more pissed if I don't do this..._

So Michael gave a single, curt nod.

_No. I'm not admitting he's right about me... I'm admitting I said something I shouldn't have aloud._

For a moment - just a fraction of a second - Father looked surprised.

Then his lips curved into a thin smile.

"Good. I'm glad you came to your senses."

Ha.

That alone was almost enough to make the teen angry again.

Almost.

Henry opened his mouth, seeming like he too wanted to say something to the distraught Michael, but a familiar voice cut-in.

"Your drinks."

 _Thank God..._ the teen could feel himself practically deflating in his seat.

Right on time. Soon enough, all their glass drinks were set down.

Michael looked away from Henry, then took a few sips of the coke, letting that sweet, sweet carbonation of artificial cherry sizzle across his tongue. He sighed, as the beverage seemed to in a strange way, bring him back to his senses. Michael only now realized how dry his throat was.

Father, however, nearly snatched the red wine bottle from the penguin waiter's meaty hand, then just about filled his glass to the rim.

He gulped it down in a matter of seconds.

_So much for being calm and stoic I guess..._

Henry looked mildly concerned about the drinking, but didn't say anything, also taking the time to "enjoy" his disgusting drink...

The only one who wasn't was Chris.

Michael's frown somehow deepened as he took a closer look at the boy, with Father being too busy.

Had he cried? It was harder to tell this time... while the little man didn't have any tears rolling down his face, his eyes now looked red and puffier than they had moments before. He had a napkin right in front of him, so it'd be easy to wipe them away almost immediately. So if he had - why? What had happened to...

_She's not coming back..._

Oh, yeah...

He'd said that. Just barely.

The teen scoffed.

_Still not a reason to cry, still not a reason to cry..._

The pit in his stomach wouldn't leave.

Why were his usual thoughts and beliefs feeling so damn uncertain?

_You know why, but won't admit it._

**_Shut up._ **

Michael ground his teeth together so hard they may as well been eroded. His mind was leaping through so many different emotions, he was starting to tire himself out. It felt as if he trapped in a storm out in the middle of the ocean - and wave after wave was crashing down on him, changing how he was feeling each time.

And yet he was also fighting it. Fighting the storm because he was stronger than any emotional hurricane. He just had to hold onto his usual anger. He could handle it. He-

"Sir, what would you like to eat?"

The teen whipped his head up at the voice - only to see it was their penguin waiter again.

"Huh?"

"Your food, sir. Everyone else's ordered."

What? Though sure enough, everyone (except the little man of course) was staring at him expectantly. Father especially, tapping his finger on the table in impatience.

Michael blinked, "Oh..." he was already starting to regret drinking the soda a bit too fast, and just about everything on the menu (that he was just now reading) looked like they'd sit in his belly like a rock... if he didn't vomit it up, because that's just how crummy he was feeling.

He grunted, dressing back into his everyday scowl. "Uh, caesar salad." Did they even have that?

"Walt," Henry spoke up, "please add some chicken in it."

Apparently _Walt_ then nodded, writing it down on his notepad. "Sure thing." He walked back into the kitchen.

Both Michael and William frowned at Henry.

He shrugged. "Come on, Will. I know you've been busy and that makes cooking hard - believe me I know - but he looks like he needs it."

"I'm not skinny." the teen blurted defensively out of habit.

Henry didn't look any less fazed. "Maybe not. But still - you look a bit hollowed out today."

Michael huffed. "Hmph."

"Well anyways," Henry started, turning his attention back at Father. "How's Fredbear's been while I was away, old friend?"

Father sipped down more wine. "Fine, I suppose. As long as I'm there. Just a few days ago..."

Michael tuned out after that. It was just boring business stuff he wasn't interested in.

He sighed, leaning back in his seat, looking across the table back at Chris and Charlie who were actually... leaned closer together and... talking? Michael frowned. When had this happened? Were they actually friends or were they just talking because they were bored too?

And if the first was true, was Chris suddenly a replacement for Liz for her?

The teen scowled harder, looking away from the two children. Whatever. He didn't care if they were friends or something. He'd known Charlie for years - and even when she was little, she always seemed to be a person who'd talk to anybody if she thought they needed it. Kinda like her dad.

Henry's voice cut in again, a bit louder so it got everyone's attention.

"Well, listen, Will. There's been something I've been meaning to show you - and I think the children should know about it too."

Michael raised an eyebrow, feeling more interested. Chris and Charlie stopped whatever conversation they were having, shifting their curious eyes towards Henry.

Father poured more wine into his glass, then gave a nod when he was done. "I'm listening."

"Well, I didn't just travel for the vacation." Reaching underneath him, Henry then brought out a large notepad, grinning just a bit. "I also needed to get parts for a very advanced animatronic."

A new animatronic?

Father's eyebrows creased in a way of skepticism.

"You built an entirely _new_ animatronic for the business?"

"Yes - and again, it's pretty advanced." He sounded excited admitting it.

"Do you..." he paused, quickly put a fist to his mouth, seeming to swallow something down before continuing. "Do you mean one from the TV show?"

His friend shook his head. "No - I mean an entirely different new character." He reached across the table, handing Father the notebook. "Here."

Father took it - notebook in his right and wine in his left.

Curious, Michael leaned over, just enough so he could see it. His eyes first caught the title. A-

"A security puppet?" Father slurred for him, an eyebrow raised.

Wait, slurred?

Michael eyed Father, whose cheeks were just starting to fade into a light hue of red, his eyes struggling to focus on the notebook.

Hold up. How much wine had he-

The bottle was empty.

Michael's jaw nearly dropped.

_Wha- how?_

Henry continued. "Yes - I... I know it's bad timing, but I believe it'll keep certain tragedies from happening again. It was actually an idea I came up with a little while ago. At the time of making it, I was thinking it could start off in one of the restaurants."

Father didn't respond. His hard, blue eyes were glued to the notebook.

Henry kept going anyway. "Basically, all children would be required to wear colorful bracelets when entering Fredbear's or any establishment we own. The Puppet stays in a prize box, but comes out when it sees a child - or really, the bracelet - leave the establishment, then fetches them. But most importantly, it'd be a way to keep Cha- children safe at all times. And it's a machine, so unlike employees, it won't get distracted."

Father continued sitting there with a now empty wine glass in his hand, glaring at the sketch of a clown-faced marionette that had a long, black, spider-like body.

_Creepy. How are kids supposed to feel safe around this thing?_

Finally, the older man set the notebook down, then started picking at the cloth as if he was by himself, waiting for the food.

"Um..." Henry started awkwardly. "So what do you think, Will?"

Father brought his head up and-

Oh shit.

Michael knew that look.

"Tell me, old friend," he snarled in a dangerously soft tone, "why you didn't bring this up to me sooner."

Henry blinked looking confused. "What? Will, it was just-"

"How long again has this idea been sitting in the back of your mind?"

"Well, like I said, years, but-"

"And you never thought to tell me? When it was a plan for our business?"

The other sighed, sounding more frustrated. "I know we agreed to always tell one another our plans - but William - you just opened your own spinoff restaurant, and were busy building other new animatronics. I didn't want to stress you out any further. Besides, it was something I wasn't taking seriously until recently."

 _William_ scoffed. "And _yet,_ " he was starting to rise out of his seat. Michael glanced around. Every eye was on them now. "That suddenly means my restaurant doesn't need a security system like this? That I suddenly didn't deserve to know? For what - a _surprise? ..._ That maybe..." He paused for a brief second - taking the time to glare a layer of venom at his friend. "It could've prevented certain _tragedies_ from happening?"

Then it clicked for Michael why Father was so pissed about all this.

And apparently, it did for Henry as well, because the guy's eyebrows rose in absolute dumbfoundedness. "William, you cannot be-"

"I am," he stated as if challenging Henry to question him any further. "But I suppose you have no idea what it's like to lose your child."

Silence.

Henry blinked, looking like he'd just been smacked.

Then, as if the words had finally sunk deep enough to the very core of the man's heart, his hands curled into tight fists as he took in a shaky breath - now also slowly standing up. "That is _not_ true Will. That is not true and you-"

"I mean a child who actually had a life."

Silence.

Then Henry took a deep breath. Then another, and another, his back rising up and down in a dramatic fashion, like some terrible and painful creature was building up inside of him. His hands seeming to clutch the table cloth for dear-life.

Henry brought his head. His eyes were an entirely different fire, but still just as deadly.

His mouth opened to-

Then he suddenly seemed to catch himself.

And Michael realized why.

His eyes were on his daughter...

Who was holding Chris in a protective hug.

As if protecting the boy from _her father._

They looked _scared_ of him.

The man - quite literally - deflated back into his seat in defeat, scraping his fingers against his scalp. Henry's face then scrunched up into a miserable ball of every raw variety of pain, hurt, and confusion you could think of.

He shook his head in disbelief.

"William..." he whispered, "what has happened to-"

"Excuse me, is there a problem?" a new voice cut in. It was their waiter - with must've been the tray of food they ordered on his right hand.

"No." Father hissed out, shifting his gaze away from his friend. "In fact, we're leaving."

Michael frowned. "Wait, what? But-"

"Come on." Before the teen could argue any further, the older man grabbed his wrist, yanking him out of his seat and away from their table - along with Chris out of Charlie's arms.

The teen didn't even look back on the Emily's, focusing only on the man who was dragging along with a stone-clasped grip.

"I- Dad, you're drunk. You shouldn't-"

"Shut up!" he barked just as they burst through the double doors. "You be quiet or you're walking home."

_It'd probably be safer._

Even so, the teen found himself practically thrown into the front seat of their purple car.

And as soon as that engine roared, a punch of anxiety he didn't even know could exist, manifested inside of him. And against his will, made horrid scenarios of drunken car crashes after drunken car crash, play in his head.

_What. Was. **Wrong with him?**_

Though he still didn't dare say anything when they drove off.

So Michael kept his eyes glued to the road the whole ride, his muscles so tense they were hurting, as the teen with-no-drivers-license prepared himself to take the wheel if for any reason they'd come close to hitting something.

The road was barren, thankfully.

Yet it was still the most stressful car drive of his life.

And the only sound throughout the drive, was Chris trying - and failing - to hold back his crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh... as always hope this chapter's alright... tired of editing.


	17. Sam Exposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the title is a pun.

"I'm really sorry about yesterday Chris."

"It's not your fault."

"I know but... why would your dad say that? Something so horrible to his best friend?"

The two children sat under a small tree in the back of their school's field. It was away from the other children who were either playing their typic running games or huddled by the school doors, wanting to escape the cold air. So even though Charlie and Chris had to sacrifice more warmth, it was worth it to them, because there was no one to bother the two.

"I..." Chris looked down. "I'm not sure..." his fingers found themselves picking at the moist, tufts of grass. "H-he's been... different lately..." to say the least.

_I'm proud of you._

_Snap._

_A storm of terror..._

But to his relief, Charlie nodded, then spoke, her voice then pulling him out of his void. "That makes sense... you know I've been thinking about it..."

He brought his head back up. "You have...? A-are..." he swallowed, a bubble of nervousness swelling up to his chest. "Are you mad?" he asked in a small voice. Chris felt like the question was a bit intrusive, but he just _had_ to know. Because what if Charlie decided she didn't want to be his friend anymore because of his Father's outburst? That had been his main fear during that horrendous drive home... that she'd look for someone else... make a new friendship bracelet for them... so if she was mad, then he really didn't know what he could do.

The boy held his breath as he waited for her answer.

Though to his lung's displeasure, the girl seemed to ponder on this for quite a while, as she stared off into the distance, a glassy look over-taking her brown eyes.

Just before Chris thought he'd pass out from the tension of waiting (and you know, holding his breath for too long), Charlie spoke. Spoke in a little, but sure voice.

"No... no, I don't think I'm mad..."

The boy let out a _whoosh_ of relief, though also a bit surprised. "You're not?"

She shrugged, bringing her knees up to her chest, hugging them. "No... I don't feel good about it... I hate, _hate_ what he said... but it's not anger that I'm feeling... not really..." she sighed. "It's more like sadness..."

"Why?" Chris found himself asking, though he felt like he already knew the reason.

"Just... seeing friends fight... 'cause it reminded me of when me and Liz argued... and like us, they seemed so close before... I know your dad's usually a bit grumpy, but it always seemed like he had a soft spot for my dad... but then it all went so bad so fast..."

"...yeah."

She sniffed. "I guess I also don't want to be angry with him - because I know all of this must be so hard and painful... I..." she wiped newly fresh tears off her cheeks. "B-but then I've also never seen Dad look that angry before..."

The boy finally stopped picking at the grass. The image of both his Father and Henry's hateful eyes burned in the front of his mind, causing him to internally cringe.

"Can I..." he started, "can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Uh... w-why did... why did Henry get so mad when Father talked about losing a child? I mean... you're not lost."

Unexpectedly, Charlie actually let out a little snicker at that- which caught Chris off guard... yet when seeing that change in her face, he couldn't help himself. So just a few moments later, he too felt his cheeks rise in please, albeit ever-so tiny. He wanted to see that smile more.

"No... I'm definitely not." She let out another sigh, face sinking back into solemnity (same with his). "I guess it makes sense that you don't know... it's really really hard for my dad to talk about... I mean, i-it was even my mom who told me... not Dad."

"What?"

She looked at him intently. "Promise you won't bring it up to him? I don't want 'em get like that again."

Chris nodded. "Promise."

She took a deep breath. "Ok so... I'm actually a twin."

The boy could feel his jaw drop and his eyebrows rise. "You _are?"_

"Yeah... to a brother... Sammy... but..." she sniffed, again wiping her face. "There were complications as my mom said... he..." she seemed to choke on her words, but pulled back, then said the next sentence quickly yet painfully, as if it was a band-aid she'd decided to rip off. "He died a few hours after he was born... I almost didn't make it..."

Charlie ~~didn't~~ couldn't continue, instead, burying her face into her knees. The sound of familiar soft sobs of loss and long for a sibling reached the boy's ears.

A tight feeling nabbed at Chris's chest, causing his heart to ache. He and Charlie had been friends for barely more than a couple of days, yet he already couldn't stand seeing her so sad...

He glanced down at his friendship bracelet, then hers.

He took a deep breath, scooted to the girl's side, wrapping his arms around her, just as she had done a few days before.

From the suddenness and surprise of being touched, Charlie brought her head out of her knees. She then stared down, giving the boy a puffy-eyed stare, but a puffy-eyed stared fill with thankfulness.

_I'm just returning the favor._

After wiping away a few more tears, she spoke again - though it was blubbery.

"M-my... my dad tells me it's not my fault... that it's not anyone's fault, but I just... sometimes I lie awake at night, wondering if I took all his strength to live somehow."

He snuggled in closer to her. "Please don't say that about yourself... you give life, not take it." the boy held up his wrist with the friendship bracelet to her like it was the most crucial piece of evidence. "See? Just like your mom said."

She looked down at it.

And to his joy - to the the very delight of his heart - Charlie Emily's lips curved into the small shape of an upside-down rainbow. She was smiling. Yes, a smile still mixed in with a pinch of that same sadness, but a smile nonetheless. She smiled down at the piece of jewelry he already cherished. Smiled at him for apparently saying something right. For being _good._

Talking to Charlie already just felt so natural and somehow _right_ to him. Of course, it was kinda strange since they didn't interact to this level in the past... and how this all came so soon... but he just wanted to _keep_ talking to her. Continue to see that smile. Keep being around her, because...

Because...

It made him _happy,_ he realized.

It sounded so simple, yet felt so complicated. Being around Charlie gave him joy. Natural, bright pleasure he hadn't felt in... well, when his family wasn't _broken._

But the strangest part?

Chris could still feel the wounds. It continued to burn when he thought about _snap._ They were big, ugly scars that seethed across his mind... and they still didn't feel like they'd go away. He wasn't sure if they'd go away forever, but... when he was around Charlie - this person who'd smile at him out of sisterly-like love... suddenly...

Suddenly the scars didn't feel as bad.

They were still fresh, and tender, but now, it felt as though - slowly but surely - they were being bandaged by those small little acts of love.

Warm air blew into his ear.

"Thank you. Again."

Chris blinked out of his thoughts, looking back up at his new friend, perplexed. "For what?"

_You're the one who helped me..._

She beamed down at him with that smile again, causing his heart to skip a beat.

"Just for listenin'... you're good at it. And it feels like a lot of people don't do it enough..."

Chris's only response was a hum of doubt. He didn't know if that was true - the thing about him. Really, he was just a naturally quiet kid who found it hard to talk to most others.

"Hey," Charlie spoke into his ear again. "There's something fun I was thinking we could do."

"Hm?" Well, that could be alright. He'd love to do something fun with the Emily. So long as it wasn't-

"I think we should go to Fredbear's sometime. You know, just to-"

_I'm taking you back there._

The happiness shut off.

His wounds split open.

Pain resurfaced.

**_"NO!"_ **

The sound of a choked-back squeal escaped Chalie's throat, as the girl flinched away from the boy. She stared down at him with wide, startled eyes fused with distressed bewilderment. Chris only then realized how heavy his breathing had suddenly become, as if he was on the streets and had just gotten away from a battle with a wild dog.

"I.." he stuttered, on the verge of tears once again. "I-I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... Charlie... I-I didn't mean to-"

The girl shook her head, hastily scooting back to him. "No, _no_ Chris, please don't apologize. _I'm_ sorry... I thought... I remember you loving it a lot... a-and I've been missing going there... so I was thinking that you'd like to do something that'd be fun for both of us...to get our mind's off of..." she bit her lip and didn't finish, instead letting out a sigh. She then changed the subject. "There's not a lot of other stuff to do around here for kids our age... And Fredbear's isn't the place where _it_ happened, so... so I thought you'd be alright with..." her voice trailed off into nothing, and her head sunk down, filling the air between them with an awkward silence.

Chris didn't respond, as the boy had no idea what to say.

Another thing she'd thought of for his benefit...

"But..." she finished after a while, "I see that was insensitive now..."

_Snap._

_But Charlie's selflessness to him..._

_They chew people to bits all the time!_

_But her smile..._

Chris felt as though his emotions were all of a sudden fighting for his body, about to split him two like he was a stuffed toy a duo of children were tugging at from opposite ends... And on one hand, no - he absolutely did _not_ want to see Fredbear's wide, gaping mouth again. A mouth he'd seen a head sticking out of... that a child could fit into... but on the other hand...

_Something fun for both of us..._

Charlie had just confessed something extremely personal with Chris when it was _him_ who'd asked. He'd thought he'd managed her feel better, but now it seemed like he'd just ruined it again because of his outburst. The girl was now staring down at the grass, appearing even _sadder_ now. And Chris couldn't decide if he hated the golden bear animatronic, or Charlie's disappointed frown more...

_But..._

Oh gosh...

What if it ate _her?_

The shaky breathing returned, his lip quivering.

And the previous thought alone almost caused him to start bawling.

Surely there were other things they could do together... Chris didn't really see the problem with hugging... he enjoyed it quite a bit. It was kinda like how he'd squeeze his old Fredbear plushie, but better because Charlie hugged him back.

The boy opened his mouth to tell her how he felt about all of it, but Charlie beat him to it.

"Actually..." her face lit up slightly. It seemed like an idea popped into her head. "Would you... maybe be willing to make a compromise?"

He blinked. "Compromise?"

She nodded. "Yeah. My dad does it a lot in business. It's where two different people agree in a way that'll benefit both of them."

"Oh."

"Yeah, so... what if we did that?"

Chris tilted his head, actually a bit curious. "How?"

"Well, what if we go only when the Security Puppet's put in?"

Security puppet...

The events of last night replayed in his head, and the explanation Henry had given for the so-called "new" animatronic. What he could mainly remember was that meant to keep children in the pizzeria safe. A protector. Guardian.

"I trust my dad." Charlie then stated since he didn't reply, sounding sure. "I... I know he was kinda scary last night, but... I told you why... and I still trust him more than anyone. Especially when it comes to his inventions, so I know it'll keep us safe."

_It... it's not like Father had a hand in making it..._

_But Fredbear..._

"O-ok... but... one more compromise."

"What?"

"Um..." he twiddled his fingers together, "please... no Fredbear or Bonnie... just the games and food..."

Chalie's lips curved into the smallest hint of a puzzled frown, her eyes just squinting. She studied him for a moment, as if deciding whether or not she wanted to ask him why he had a sudden distaste for the yellow suits.

Then, probably deciding she'd rather go on those terms than not at all, she nodded her head, smiling again. "Ok. It's a deal. And we'll always stay together, just to be safe."

The boy looked up at her with wide, hopeful eyes. "Promise?"

Her smile grew wider. "Promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I just discovered font editing. Neat! Anways, a bit of a quickie chapter. But as always, I hope you enjoyed it, and would love to know what you think. Thanks!


	18. Gamer

Ha.

One girl gives him attention, and suddenly, life was going just _fantastic_ for Chris.

And the girl factor also makes going to the place where he threw a tantrum and kicked at his retriever, all of a sudden, "not a big deal."

So, Chris, the New Favorite was now interested in going to pizza place he threw a fit at? Well, of _course,_ Michael now had to take him there. Either that or "your last chance will be up, Michael James." But what was even the point now? Henry had managed to jump through the hoops his dad put up to get the creepy, spider puppet-thing up and running, so why did Michael have to do its job?

Speaking of creepy, the Puppet was somehow way freakier in real life then the sketch Henry had done. Granted, he had yet to see it in action, but it had a quality that he didn't expect from the machine - which were its eyes. In what seemed to be at completely random times, the spindly marionette would occasionally peek its head out of the giant, white, red-ribboned present box it resided in.

And those bright, glowing green eyes would gleam from the shade of the box, like a panther hiding from its prey, eyes locked on every little wrist. That one little trait made the teen hope it stayed in its box, so he wouldn't have to see the rest of it.

 _But,_ let it be known that Michael was well aware it was just a robot - so he was _not_ afraid of the damn thing like Chris was suddenly afraid of Fredbear and Bonnie - but no way in Hell would he want it to sneak up on him if he ever decided to try and sneak out.

That was another thing he was pissed off about. Just like Henry said at their dinner, every child that entered the pizzeria was now required to wear a neon-colored bracelet - which included him for some reason.

Michael found the first day that arguing with the employee to give him a pass hardly got him anywhere, so the teen would allow it to be put on, then ripped it off as soon as no one was looking.

It went on like that for a couple of days, him mainly watching two little kids play games in the small arcade room and eat pizza with grease that bled through the paper plates.

And Father?

Oh, Father...

Well... to put it most simply, Michael wasn't able to understand what was going on in his father's head more so these past few weeks than in his entire life (which wasn't saying much).

It started off as little things. Like in the evenings, with him trying to stand up straight when doing something as simple as walking to his room, but his feet would end up dragging, or his body would sway to one side as if Earth's gravitation pull had somehow altered. The taller man would then almost end up falling head-first if he went too fast, his eyes looking rather out of focus when he did. Or rather than a coffee and toast in the morning, was a few chugs of a can of beer right before practically stumbling out the door. Hell, Michael couldn't get more than ten feet before smelling the burning scent of alcohol as if it was a natural, defensive trait to lure predators away.

But the drinking wasn't all.

One night, his old man came home with a bruise on his right cheek. Another night a scratch. His hair somehow was turning grey, a bit a stubble was growing out into an unshaven beard. Some days it was actually hard to tell if he was losing or gaining weight. His face had sunken, bloodshot eyes sinking down into the back of his skull.

Sometimes though, Father would gain the focus to glare bullets at Michael, challenging his rebellious son to dare mention that anything wrong.

And he wasn't sure if Chris was now in a state of happy denial or was using Chalie as some sort of life preserver (probably both), but he never once seemed bothered by the behavior (if he was somehow even with them that late or early).

Michael was just _so_ glad Chris now had someone to hold hands and skip across the rainbows with above his brother's typhoon.

But the absolute worst part about all of this? The last push of the teen's flimsy tower of happiness to make it all crumble down?

_Still._

_No._

**_Liz._ **

Professionals were getting close, his _ass._

No fighting over the TV remote any longer. No more slamming on her door to turn her garbage pop music down. He now didn't have to try and beat her to the last cookie when coming home from school. Or rolling his eyes when she'd cried after getting a droplet of mud on he "pretty pink dress."

Buzz of his sister sizzled away quickly. Too quickly. It was much, much faster than even Michael'd been expecting from this small town. Almost in a horror movie type way with how... well with how everything about her being taken just seemed to _vanish._ The missing posters were either completely weathered away or were just taken down, and hadn't been replaced with any new information. Gossip of the popular, darling little Afton girl had dried out from citizens tongues in conversations. Parents were back to being fine with not keeping a close eye on their kids at the restaurant. After all, Circus Baby's wasn't even located in Hurricane, and the new "state-of-the-art" Security Puppet was up, so what did they have to worry about?

Sure the town was small, but there was new news every day... even so, everything about the past week or two felt off to Michael, and he now knew why.

It suddenly felt as though Liz's existence had been buried beneath the grains of denial.

Michael hated that he'd been right.

And in typical Michael James fashion - it made him - in the easiest way to describe it - _angry._

He'd been completely right and wanted to hurdle stars at one another with his bare hands because he had been.

Anger for being given false hope that there was a lead. Angry that those missing posters had been taken down. _Furious_ that this had happened in the first place because-

_This is your fault._

The teen's slightly healed hands again quivered to blow off steam.

So then, one day, and perhaps it was from the urge to throw burning balls of gas, Michael too started to play skeeball (by pretty much chucking the ball into the goal), or would occasionally pounce from a random corner and scare the little-little kids that came near him- but not soon enough, a concerned looking Henry came when complaints were made, then took him by the shoulder, telling the teen-

"Listen, Michael, I can see why a kid your age wouldn't like it here. You've been watching Chris and even Charlie for a while, so why don't you go do something with your friends? With me and the Security Puppet, they'll be alright. We'll just keep this between us." he gave then teen a small smile and a wink at that last part.

Friends... yeah, friends could be an option to make him close to happy.

That earned Henry a bump up to his "People Michael James Afton Might Like Half the Time" list.

So then, taking a large pepperoni, Michael made his way through (now March's) clouded atmosphere to Jeremy's house, so he could surprise his friends since earlier at lunch the group had discussed hanging out there and watch a movie considering the Fitzgerald's had quite the variety of films.

Once Michael was at the door of the Fitzgerald's standard, red brick house, the teen pressed his thumb on the doorbell, hearing the chime of synthetic bells echo through the door right after.

It was Jeremy himself who opened the door.

His blond eyebrows rose in surprise. "Michael! I thought you had to watch Chris some more ."

"I did. But Henry let me sneak out."

"Oh, really? Well, that was cool of him."

The shorter of the two sniffed impatiently. "So are ya gonna let me come in or wait for the pizza to get cold?"

Fitzgerald blinked in realization. "O-oh!" he stepped out of the way. "Y-yes! Please come in."

Michael did just that, rolling his eyes along the way.

"Um, you can set the pizza down on the kitchen counter." the teen's friend told him as he strolled into the dining room.

"Are Tommy and Marianne here?" Michael asked while setting the pizza box down.

"Oh... uh, no. You're the first one actually. In fact, you're early."

Ha. Wasn't that rare?

"What about your parents? They still at work?"

"Mmhm. Dad's pretty booked today at the shop and my mom's still working late at the hospital."

Michael nodded. From what he knew, Jeremy's dad ran the town's mechanic shop and his mom was a nurse at their little hospital. No siblings. That left him alone quite a bit in the house.

Michael was jealous.

"Well... I guess while we wait, is there anything you wanna do?"

"Mm... doesn't matter to me." As long as it would give him a bit of relief over the past few days.

"Ok...well then... would you mind a video game or two?"

Michael shrugged. "Sure." Video games weren't exactly his thing, but the teen couldn't think of anything better to do with the time they had.

The corners of Jeremy's mouth twitch, making it look like he was trying to conceal a huge grin and remain calm. "Cool."

The two friends then made their way up to Jeremy's room, which was located in the one-story house's loft (so Jeremy had to pull down a ladder.). Michael had been here a few times, so he was already aware that the Fitzgerald's son's room was pretty small; at least smaller than his. However, the Afton still liked his friend's room better: Jeremy got his own TV and a shelf right next to it full of video games of every kind. Just replace the games with tapes and Michael would be golden. The main console hooked up to the box-shaped picture machine was-

"Woah." Michael leaned down to get a closer look, recognizing the device from commercials. "You got a Coleco?"

Jeremy, who was scanning his shelves of games gave a smile. "Yep. Saved up tips I got from helping my dad out at the shop."

"Huh." Even though it wasn't something he'd spend his money on, Michael had to admit he was pretty impressed. And come on, who wouldn't be? Still though, the first thought raised a question...

"Why spend your money on video games?" the Afton asked, plopping down on the twin bed.

Fitzgerald paused for a moment, then turned around, looking a bit surprised. Why? Wasn't that something friends could ask one another?

"Well," he then started. "Some of it I am saving for college, but..." he paused again, lips tightening.

"But what?"

He shrugged, then scratched at the back of his neck, looking away as if embarrassed. "Ah, well... guess when I grow up... I think I wanna make video games."

Michael blinked. "Really?" He'd always thought the games were something the blond did just as a fun hobby, and not much more than that.

He frowned at himself. Had he really not known that before? He'd been well aware that Marianne wanted to join some sort of fancy professional make-up business like her sister, and Tommy... well Tommy would draw a new card on his career choice just about every other day. But Jeremy... yeah he wasn't the loudest kid, but had Michael not know that about his friend?

 _He probably just didn't mention it,_ his brain reasoned.

As if reading his mind, Jeremy then continued, "Yeah... heh, I dunno... there's not a lot of people I've told since it's just an idea... we'll see, but... well I guess there's just something about them, you know?"

It came out before he could think.

"No."

Silence.

Finally, "Oh... uh, alright... I guess it is kinda dumb... I've just always liked them and wanted to make games of my own... or help develop 'em at least... that's about it." Jeremy then shifted his gaze towards the ground, eyes sullen.

 _Shit._ That'd been the wrong thing to say... ugh, his stomach was starting to become knots. Damn Jeremy and his damn, sad puppy eyes... he'd come here to get away from the pathetic mopiness of Chris, and here Jeremy was, suddenly looking like he was about to sink to the floor in a puddle of sadness.

Michael let out a sigh. "I just meant that I never got to own any games before, so I don't see the appeal. It's like me and my soaps, which I know you don't get- if that's what you wanna do with your life, then don't let me stop you - and don't get all pathetic just 'cause I'm not into something you're into."

Silence again. Had _that_ been "wrong" to say too?

Jeremy's gaze eventually went towards his friend as if he'd finally processed what he said; though, he staring at him as if the Afton had just grown a second head.

Michael scowled, "What? Can you not comprehend that?"

Jeremy's lips curved into a small smile, then he let out a chuckle. "Heh, no... you're right... sorry, guess I just didn't expect you to say that..."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Mhn... nothing really... it's a good kind of unexpected..." he then cleared his throat. "Anyway, I'm sorry for getting like that... it just... it kinda reminded me of my dad..."

Michael felt his stomach drop. "Oh."

He nodded. "Yeah... again, sorry... don't get the wrong idea. I love him - he's great... has bought me games, but..." Jeremy abruptly forced out a laugh, shaking his head, "sorry... saying it out loud, I sound really ungrateful..."

Michael sighed again, frustrated by all the pointless "sorry's" and how much of a murky stream his friend sounded like. If Jeremy letting out his mushy-ass feelings would get him out of this funk, then his friend would make him. "Even people like you apparently have issues to talk about Fitzgerald. You already started spewing them out at me, so you might as well finish. And don't take that personally. You know how I'm am." he added, not wanting the blond to feel more stupid, unnecessary guilt over how Michael spoke to just about everyone.

Jeremy bit his lips, seeming to think it over before finally going on. "Well... I guess sometimes he's just one of those parents who wants me to follow in his footsteps - run the shop with him full-time... eventually buy a house around here... so he doesn't really get why I wanna do what I wanna do..."

More silence.

And Michael didn't really know what he'd been expecting. The "secret" seemed obvious and simple, yet the Afton remained silent. That explanation was hitting a little too close to home for him... and he was not a fan of how that knot of guilt was beginning to be tightened and hadn't gone away. Why, why _why?_ Was it because he just now realizing that maybe he and Fitzgerald were more similar than he first thought? There'd been moments here and there when where Michael'd felt a bit envious of the guy for always seeming to have such a stable life: good grades, parents who loved one another, a quiet house... and no siblings to be expected to watch after or cook meals for.

So was he constantly under pressure to live his life the way his parents wanted him to? Scared that if he opened up others would tell him what he wanted was stupid? Was that why he seemed so hesitant over talking about something so simple?

And... if Jeremy opened up... would he want to know the stresses of his life too?

Woah...

What was he _thinking?_

Michael almost let out a gag at the previous thought, internally stomping on himself. No. He was way over-thinking things and jumping to conclusions too quickly. Michael wasn't too much of a talker, but Fitzgerald was already well-aware of what Michael's dad was like... no need to share. Besides, It was just one thing... yeah, he appreciated Jeremy opening up and all, but he hadn't come here to sit around and talk about feelings.

Eventually, Jeremy gave an awkward cough, seeming bothered by his friend's long silence. "So uh... what do you wanna play?"

Michael gave a casual shrug, glad that the conversation's subject changed. "Don't care. I hardly know any." And that was a truth he could take to his grave. Video games were something Father'd always considered a waste of time, so he'd never owned so-much-as Pong; which, probably accounted for why'd he didn't get a kick out of them like Jeremy apparently did. But hey, maybe if he did look at his enjoyment like he viewed his beloved masterpiece of television, then maybe Michael could see the appeal.

Jeremy hummed in deep thought as a response, again turning back to his shelf of games. Though in only a matter of seconds, he grabbed a cartridge on the shelf located just below his neck.

"How about Zaxxon?" he asked, showing Michael a cartridge that had the game's name in bold, blue letters. "It's a pretty simple shooter game: you fly around space, trying to hit everything that's not your teammate."

Eh, why not? "Sure. Sounds good."

Jeremy smiled. "Cool."

A minuscule feeling, so tiny he must've been imagining it - as if being able to detect a butterfly's first flap of its wings - swished in Michael's chest.

* * *

Well, Michael sucked at videogames.

And he knew this because Zaxxon wasn't the only one they played. After going over controls multiple times, then him dying several again and again in under a minute, Jeremy quickly flicked the game off and went to his shelf to find a new one. The same thing happened just ten minutes after. This went on for who-knows-how-long, yet Jeremy never once seemed annoyed - rather the other-way-around. He claimed it was to find a game that Michael was good at, but the way Jeremy got more giddy and specific with details, spelled out to the Afton that his friend was just enjoying describing them. Jeremy could just go on and on about how each one was programmed differently or the specific coding each level must have been able to undergo. Michael hardly understood anyone of it.

_Guess he's a lot more passionate about them than just some kind of a hobby..._

Though even if Michael couldn't recite more than two sentences his friend was spewing out about "testing through a simulator" or whatever the hell and "opcode" was... strangely... it didn't annoy Michael? Ok, sure, he definitely wasn't in love with the nerdy talk per-say, yet it wasn't grating on him nearly as much as any time Chris would cry, or even more similarly, when a teacher did nothing but lecture the whole class the entire period. Was it because Jeremy seemed so enthusiastic talking about this personal stuff with him? But why would that make someone happy?

 _Because their friend isn't mocking them for what they like,_ that irritating little voice whispered.

Fine, but Michael still wasn't into what his friend was talking about. Did he seem like he was paying attention? It was either listen to Jeremy's rambling or watch his avatar die again and again, which would only frustrate the teen more (and he didn't want to break his friend's controller).

Michael finally let out a small huff of resentment at himself. He was overthinking again. Overthinking something clearly so simple of his friend just wanting to play videogames and explaining how they worked.

_But everything has to have a reason behind it one way or-_

"Mike?"

"Hrm?" Michael was pulled out of his thoughts by the voice of Jeremy, who'd apparently stopped his rant.

"You ran out of lives. You've kinda just been staring."

Michael looked back at the fuzzy screen of the TV. And what do you know, the little 8-bit ladybugs that represented his lives had apparently all flown away.

"Whoops. Zoned out there for a bit."

"Sorry, did I ramble?"

"A little bit," he responded in an honest, but non-judgemental tone.

Jeremy let out a groan while flopping on the back on his bed.. "Ugh, I'm sorry..."

Michael rolled his eyes.

I didn't mean to go off on a tangent... _sorry.._."

He felt his eye twitch, fisting tightening as if they were leather gloves.

"It must've been annoying... so sorry again. I need to stop doing that. I'll try to-"

"Fitzgerald."

"W-what?"

"Stop saying sorry."

"Oh. So-"

_**DING DONG** _

Thankful for the sweet sound of bells to keep him from jamming his own huge "sorry" into Fitzgerald's teeth, the Afton hastily climbed his way down the loft's ladder without another word.

Jeremy did follow after a surprised hesitation, coming up right behind him as Michael opened the door.

He felt himself grin when he saw that dark, beautiful face shaded from the sinking sun behind her.

And Tommy was there too.

Marianne, who was carrying a ranch and vegetable tray, raised her eyebrows.

"Michael? I thought you couldn't make it."

"Yeah," Tommy (who'd brought a tub of M&M's) chipped in. "You said you were watching that little spaz at your dad's restaurant for a while. And said he'd be pissed if he found out you left?"

Michael gave a casual shrug, leaning against the door frame. "Henry let me ditch the place. After all, the new fancy Security Puppet's installed."

Tommy frowned. "The hell is a Security Puppet?"

Marianne put a pink-painted nail to her cheek, holding her tray with one hand, now wearing a "remembering back" expression. "I think I actually heard some stuff about that in a few classes... it's made to 'keep kids safe', right? But just about everyone mentioned that's it's supposedly really creepy."

The Afton nodded. "Heh, yeah, pretty much. Though it's way creepier in real life. The scariest part is its-"

"Hey!" Damn, freaking Telford shouted out while stepping right in front of Michael's mug. Tommy's eyebrows were slightly creased together, his eyes shifting back and forth from behind him, as if he was nervous something would creep up from behind.

Michael's face flashed into a scowl, already feeling a low growl of insult threatening its way up to his throat.

"Are we gonna come in or not? It's getting cold!"

Marianne beat him to it before he snapped at Telford for screaming in his face.

"It's Jeremy's house, dumb-ass. Ask him."

"I _was!"_

"Hey, hey, calm down." Jeremy finally yipped up, poking his head out from Michael's left. "Yes, you can come in. Let's go and-"

Tommy didn't need telling twice. Before Jeremy could get another word out or Michael could stop him, the muscley teen used his melony biceps to barge past stick-figure Jeremy, who let out an "eugh" of pain, causing him to catch himself on the wall in order not to fall flat on his back and crack his head open, as Tommy marched right to the kitchen counter.

Michael blinked, staring at a momentarily stunned Jeremy.

His brain then fumed.

His feet moved before he thought, his mind no longer feeling like his own, but he didn't care, because oh he was going to teach that bastard a lesson. He was going to make his nose drip Kool-aid, squeeze the fluids out of those biceps, then throw them into a blender, turn it into a fruit smoothie, then feed it to-

Someone grabbed his hand.

He turned.

Marianne.

"Let me-"

"No," she stated in her plain and simple, no-nonsense tone. "Jeremy's's fine Michael. Tommy's just a toddler who doesn't know any better. Don't get your dick in a twist when you're finally here to hang out."

Just like that - again, putting her little charm on him - the lava in the teen's brain crashed down to his cheeks like a flash-flood. Marianne smirked, knowing she'd again got to him- _again_. Damn it, how could she always do that to any guy?

_That doesn't matter, Afton._

Right, Jeremy.

Michael quickly shifted his gaze to the wall where his friend had been shoved. And sure enough, Marianne was right. He was already up and well, now staring at Michael and Marianne with... well Michael couldn't decipher what _that_ face meant.

Michael pulled his hand out of Marianne's, then just about opened his mouth to ask if he was alright until...

_Of freaking course._

Tommy "Who's About To Get Kicked Off A Roof" Telford, who now had a mouth full of pepperoni pizza in front of an opened pizza box said-

"Ey Migue... now dahd you're achully talkin'... do ya know how ya wanna pank ya broder? We aven't done anyding ately..." he swallowed down the pizza. "And I've been _really_ bored."

Michael was just about to tell him to shove it, but he felt a soft hand touch his arm.

"I think I'd like to know too," she said with that curious keen expression.

"Sure," Jeremy added with a shrug, though he was staring at the floor.

The tensity of Michael's muscles deflated. There was still that smoldering annoyance for Tommy sizzling through him, yet right now, he realized that above all - even his anger - Michael did just want to have a good time with his friends. The teen let out a tired grunt, letting his first idea from midnight brainstorming flood back to him.

"Yeah actually, I do. But it'll be at my house and will have to be pretty late..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One word. Finally.
> 
> I bet all of you can guess why I went on hiatus; school started. And yes, we are in the school building rather than just online. So with school comes tests, waking up early, homework, early bedtime, etc. etc. I know I kinda sound like I'm complaining, but I am truly thrilled to be back. Going through quarantine in the spring made me realize how much I took school for granted.
> 
> Anyways, I thank you all for your patience with not just for waiting for chapters to come out, but the story as a whole. Sometimes I can't tell if it's too slow or rushed, lol.
> 
> And unfortunately, I can't say that the gap for the next chapter will be shorter or longer. I love school, but sometimes it can kinda kill my creative juices, so I really hope this chapter was worth the wait and not boring. Again, thank you all so much for the support you've shown. Stay safe, and see ya later.


	19. SAD

Maybe things were getting better. Just a little.

Because Chris now had someone to hold hands with as he crossed the stormy bridge - which would hopefully lead him above those storm clouds someday. Since he was already pushing his happiness luck, maybe he'd even be able to feel that colorful rainbow of happiness shine right through him someday, like the way other kids got when eating the fruity, rainbow candy.

But Michael made sure to crush those hopes. The teen had also been dragging him to Fredbear's for a while now. Surprisingly, he hardly said anything besides the usual sarcastic mocking that Chris had grown accustomed to. But somehow that was kinda worse, since if he ever made eye-contact with his stoic brother, he saw nothing but two sharp stones trying to shatter his already glass-like tinges of joy, telling Chris all he needed to know about how Michael felt about all this.

_He's not happy being here..._

Then that little voice which rested inside the back of his head, spoke up.

_After everything that's happened, is that really the worst thing in the world? He... he's always going out with his friends... leaving you... is it that bad if you go with your only one a couple of times?_

Still, even with that thought in mind, Michael stomping around, sending other kids screaming, and kicking plastic cups across the building... or him nearly breaking the arcade games, definitely didn't take the weight off Chris's shoulders...

But on the dimly-lit side, playing said arcade games with Charlie sorta did. Once he was able to get past Fredbear and Bonnie by keeping his head down and eyes just above the brink of being snapped close like a clam hiding a pearl - Chris had actually started to have fun.

And to make it even better, Henry had come and informed them just about a week or two in, that he let Michael leave to do something of his own, which helped clear at least one guilt cloud of many resting over his head, and left them with joysticks and buttons that no longer felt like they were about to snap off.

Chris had heard from other kids brag at school about the huge, fancy arcades they'd been to outside of Hurricane. And while he didn't doubt there were castles of arcades compared to the small shack he went to - Chris still wouldn't have it any other way right now. Besides his brother thrashing the games as if they were to blame, and... ok, even letting the way Father had been acting recently, cross his mind made his stomach flip upside down and bile rise up the boy's throat, so... yes, definitely scratching that off the list, the boy had actually been starting to have a great time.

Both he and Charlie got almost an infinite amount of free tokens, which led to many rounds of Ski Ball, shooting baskets, the one game where'd you'd push the button to stop the light in the exact bulb to get a thousand tickets, Pac-Man, and even Fredbear's oldest game - a few rounds of Pong.

And a part of Chris still couldn't believe how patient Charlie was with him. If he ever struggled, opening the gates for those dark thoughts of his uselessness to seep in, or got upset for not doing good - as if he was an overgrown chick trying to fly - kind Charlie would still swiftly swoop down to his level. The girl would speak to him in a gentle tone, showing the young boy the right technique to first calm down.

"Deep breaths Chris." she'd whisper, in that warm tone and motherly smile. "Count to ten while taking deep breaths. With me, ok?"

He'd sniff, then nod, following her lead as she slowly counted to ten. He focused on nothing except his breathing and Charlie's soft voice, even amidst many other children noisily enjoying the games. He decided just to be thankful that none of them came up to bother the two.

He'd then open his eyes, feeling a bit better. Once he was ready, Charlie would then happily teach the frail, little bird to follow the elder's lead, giving new tricks and tips when a new challenge approached. Letting him lean on her for support whenever he felt as though he'd collapse from those terror-filled zaps that struck down onto the boy's most hidden, darkest - yet recent - events of his past. When he felt the hot intensity of those burning inscriptions in the boy's mind would seeth straight down through the core his flesh in a white-hot flash - as if there was some kind of mutation fused within the depths of Chris's small, quaking bones.

Charlie was there, and always, always the one who would cool him off.

However... with how that being said... and how understanding and patient his new friend was towards him, there was one thing she seemed to be longing for every day.

The animatronics. The show of Fredbear and Spring Bonnie.

Every hour or two the booming voice would echo throughout the whole pizzeria, announcing that soon "Bonnie will hop on stage with his good pal Fredbear to give all the kids an extra special family diner performance!"

While Chris immediately felt his blood turn cold at the sound of his once-favorite duo singing, Charlie... well to his guilt, just about every time that happened, the girl's head would turn back towards the stage, a longing glint twinkling in her eye.

But as soon as she noticed Chris staring at her, she'd quickly give him a reassuring smile before saying. "Hey, look... all the other kids are gone. We can play whatever we want whenever we want."

Chris would then let out a sigh of relief before smiling and nodding himself.

Though he still felt his stomach twist in pain whenever she glanced back at the stage.

He could tell it was just making her sadder and sadder to not see her childhood characters perform. The games and prizes were seeming to be growing a little stale for Charlie, her smile seeming more tired, more forced every day.

Still, she never once looked annoyed at Chris for his wants or even asked him why he didn't want to be near the animatronics.

So one day, while he watched Charlie play a one-person arcade game, Chris contemplated.

Throughout every decision she made, Charlie had been thinking of no one but him. From what he'd heard about kids from adults, it felt kinda unrealistic. Yes, yes, _yes_ he loved being with Charlie, but since the high of first being with her was starting wear off, the boy was now left questioning why she was being so kind to him... he couldn't recall many other times where she'd wanted to play with him... before this, she was always with...

_You make sure she **DOES NOT** go in there!_

_**SNAP!** _

Chris felt himself real back and bend over, his hands immediately wrapping around his stomach as if he'd just been stabbed.

"Chris?" Charlie turned towards him, her hands were frozen on the joystick and buttons.

He hardly heard her. _Nonononono._ He'd been doing so good today! Why? Why now? Why did-

The blood-curdling shriek of a little girl screeched through his skull.

Chris somehow hunched over more, squeezing his eyes shut. Hot tears that felt like acid on his eyes started to leak out. He felt each breath go in and out in quick, shallow puffs, as if his lungs were swelling up.

_Snap._

**_Snap._ **

**_SNAP!_ **

It was worse. It was so, so much worse today. Maybe the worse it had ever been. It hadn't hit him like this in so long! Chris was standing there. He was looking through the door, begging for Liz to come back to him.

Why? Why was she so stubborn? Why did she ignore him? Why must-

"Chris, Chris, _please_ look at me."

He looked up. Charlie's hands were grasped on his shoulders, yet he hadn't even noticed. Her face was scrunched into a look of worry, yet also the determination you'd see on another athlete helping another finish the race.

"Chris. Remember. Deep breaths, ok? Just focus on me. Just me and my voice. You're here with me, alright? You're _safe."_

He blinked. The water still trickled down his face, and his breaths were low, but he no longer felt like he was back at Circus Baby's. Back with the ro-

He let out another whimper.

Charlie's face came closer. "Chris. Can you please take deep breaths with me?"

He took a couple more shaky breaths until he was sure where he was standing, then nodded.

"Ok. Good. With me now, alright? One..." She opened her mouth, and the sound of pizza-smelling air being inhaled blew into the boy's ears.

Chris did the same, thinking about what she said. He was here. Here, with just his friend. Not there.

"One." she counted.

Another breath.

Charlie was still with him. Helping him.

"Two."

One more.

There were no screams coming from the showroom. Just laughter and songs. Happiness

"Three."

The two exhaled one final time; though, Chris could still feel his body slightly trembling.

There didn't need to be words for what he needed, because soon enough, Charlie had him wrapped in one of her spell-binding hugs. Almost immediately, he felt his body relax and go back into its natural shape, like a rubber ball someone had finally lifted their shoe off of. His arms wrapped around her as well.

Chris was glad neither Michael, nor any other kids were in the arcade room anymore. He didn't want Charlie to get embarrassed because of him... even though she'd probably say it wasn't a big deal.

How did that come so naturally to her and not Michael?

And why did he enjoy her prominent show of affection so much more than Father's?

The swell of his heart, rising like freshly baked bread, plus the warmth of a warm, gooey brownie that filled his stomach whenever they did this told him why that was, but it was something that was impossible to put into words.

He looked back down at the friendship bracelet he hadn't taken off since he put it on.

"Charlie," he whispered.

"Hm?"

"Um... W-why... why do you do this?" A question that had been tingling at the back of his head ever since he noticed that maybe Charlie wasn't as happy around him as he thought.

Her hug became a tad looser, her position shifted. "Why wouldn't I?" She sounded genuinely surprised and confused.

"W-well, I mean..." he swallowed. "We... w-weren't really like this b-b-before..."

A pause.

"...You weren't always this sad before. Maybe a little timid, but not..." she stopped, seeming to think about her words carefully. "not so gloomy."

Huh. Was that true? Probably... ok, definitely. Chris was well aware that he'd never exactly been the happiest kid in the world... loneliness was something he'd been used to for a while now... he'd still managed to find his own form of innocent entertainment in the past...

But once he saw...

 ** _NO._** It was a forceful mental command, but it worked, as he pulled those curtains shut before he had another breakdown.

With none of them speaking, there was simply silence between the two. Though he could still hear the deep, grandfatherly voice of Fredbear, harmonizing with Bonnie's more fast-paced younger one. And with the stars, were the children singing along like an out-of-key piano. They sounded like they were having so much fun...

But Chris didn't want Charlie to get hurt. That very thought of Fredbear gulping her up like he'd seen the bear do to someone else (as his mind told him) all those weeks ago was enough to make his eyes reflexively moisten up again like a damp towel.

_But it's been weeks... and none of the other children have gotten hurt._

Then what about the two massacres he saw? Surely that could have been a coincidence.

_Maybe it wasn't..._

Realization dawned on him.

_Maybe the problem is **you.**_

The boy's head nearly shot up as if the hardest riddle on earth finally popped into his head - and in a way, he felt like he'd just solved Earth's hardest question.

The answer being that only Chris had been there to witness those terrible events. He'd thought it'd just been because of some terrible coincidence, yet no other kids in Hurricane had been reported missing or shed tears overseeing the animatronics do something terrible. It'd just been Chris... watching.

Could the animatronics hate him now? And if that were the case... so as long as he wasn't there, then... nobody would get hurt. Plus, he'd almost forgotten that Security Puppet was up, resting in its box. He hadn't seen it, but he still remembered that it was Henry who built it and not Father...

So he was really going to say it to her...

"Charlie?"

"What?"

He said it before he could change his mind.

"I think you should go and watch the show." Ironically, it was the most confident-sounding statement he'd said in forever.

She scooted back, looking down at him with wide eyes. "What?"

Oh gosh... was that too forward? "I-I mean... y-you just... I c-can tell you've been missing it."

Charlie looked away as if embarrassed, her cheeks flushing pink. "Well I... ok, I won't lie... I have... but..." she glanced down at her hands. "I don't want to leave you here by yourself, Chris... I'd feel bad."

He shook his head, trying his best to sound confident again, putting on a small smile. "I-I promise it's fine."

She bit at her lip. "Will... will you at least tell me why you don't want to watch it? I thought you loved it... I've been wondering for a while, but... I was just a little nervous to ask after when I first asked you to come here..."

Chris's heart leaped to his throat. The one question he didn't want to hear. "I..." he started. His eyes darted around everywhere except Charlie's face. But that turned out to be a mistake because just behind her, he could see bright yellow, plastic-like skin making its way closer to the children at the table, whose mouths and eyes were widened with wonder.

Could they hear him in here? Well, true or not, Chris could feel his stomach gurgling with anxiety. If he recited either story here of all places, it'd probably only result in another panic attack, and then Charlie would probably never do something fun for herself.

"I'll... I'll tell y-you tomorrow." he stuttered, pushing the words out of his throat like a clogged bagpipe.

Charlie pursed her lips and slightly creased her eyebrows in a way that told him she wanted to disagree.

"I-I promise," he said again, then lifted up his left hand in front of her, curling all his fingers together except for his small pinky.

Charlie looked at him, then his pinky. He could almost see the gears turning in her head, on whether to accept or decline. And if he was being honest, Chris wasn't really sure what option he wanted his friend to pick.

Finally, she glanced back to the main room. She let out a sigh.

"Ok... but you promised, alright? Just please... tell me what's wrong tomorrow. Maybe I can help."

He wasn't sure about that, but Chris still felt his small smile grow a bit wider. The boy straightened up more before puffing up his chest, then slashed an invisible X over the skin that was just covering up rapidly beating heart.

"Pinky promise _and_ cross my heart."

Charlie's eyebrows rose. She let out a small snicker, then locked pinkies with the boy.

"Ok. Thank you, Chris."

She gave him one quick but sweet hug - like the little sugary fizzle you feel on your tongue when taking the first sip of soda - before the girl ran off to see the golden duo play, as if she was just like all the other eager children.

Chris knew better.

But Now the boy sat alone with the one thing he didn't want to be with.

His thoughts.

Finicking his hands together in an anxious way, Chris hastily stood up, his back facing the showroom, while trying his best to ignore the low grumble that was Fredbear's voice.

But he already could feel his heart starting to pound harder and harder with every word that came out of the golden bear's mouth, pumping out a freezing river that was blood from one part of his small body to the next, as it ran through him faster, faster - like it was somehow trying to escape from the tips of his toes or fingers.

He pulled his blue coat closer around him, shivering. How was it possible for a place you once loved, to feel so foreign? It was as if he suddenly had amnesia for all those happy memories he used to have here... and Charlie had been his one guide back to them...

Chris shook his head at himself. There had to be _something_ he could do.

He looked around by only moving his eyes because of how stiff his body felt.

His eyes quickly landed on an arcade game that he and Charlie had just been playing; Donkey Kong.

Chris sighed while slumping his shoulders up and down in a shrug. Well, that would have to do.

Pulling his coat's hoodie over his head as if it'd somehow block the bear's singing, the boy hurriedly went to the back of the game room and grabbed a wooden stool for short kids like him who couldn't reach the arcade games, dragging it across the dark - but speckled with some colorful spots - carpet. He then set it up and pulled out a few tokens from his coat pocket just before starting it up.

 _Charlie's fine. Charlie's fine. Charlie's fine._ He continually repeated to himself like a broken record, as he controlled the small man in red over-alls; climbing up ladders while also dodging barrels and fireballs with faces - all to save a young, blond girl in a pretty pink dress from an angry ape at the top of the level.

The guilt rock and hateful voice trapped in the boy's body was already starting to find ways in every part of him so it could tell Chris how much of a selfish coward he was being by not going with Charlie. Making all the decisions without caring for her. Wanting a hug when dark thoughts like these seeped in instead of dealing with them himself. Letting her go all by herself to the robots that were five times her size and would have no problem crushing any part of her small body. Why couldn't he just keep his head down and go along with it?

_But I'm not going **to** protect her! Everything's been fine for the past few weeks!_

Chris felt his fingers tighten around the joystick. He didn't think the game helped his anxieties that much. He started to glance back at the party room multiple times, though unfortunately, he couldn't pick out Charlie's figure or voice because of the small entrance and all the other's kid's laughter and singing.

_Still, there are no screams of fear, so that's a good sign._

Even after dying multiple times because he kept looking away, Chris still eventually beat the game since there weren't a lot of levels. The score wasn't very impressive, though it still asked him to put a three-letter name down. Hardly (if even that) caring about whether or not his name went up on a stupid leaderboard, and while not thinking with his head when doing-so, Chris limply meandered through the letters putting in the simplest word that described himself.

SAD.

And surprise, surprise he wasn't on the leaderboard. Not knowing what else to do, he scanned the screen up and down, reading the simple names.

His eyes eventually landed on the First Place spot, which (to the slight raise of his eyebrows) was miles ahead of even second. The letters typed in as the place holder was JFG.

Chris hummed, wondering for a split second what it stood for.

Only a second though, because not a moment later, something yanked on his right arm, dragging him off the school.

Yet before he could let out an instinctive scream of terror, a familiar, grumpy voice spoke, managing to cut above the music and laughter of the other room.

"Scream and I'm dumping your ass in the garbage with a sock in your mouth."

Oh.

_Of course._

"M-Mikey?" he queried while still getting dragged across the carpet farther and farther down the back. "W-where are we going?"

"Home," he answered like it was obvious.

Chris's eyes turned into saucers. "W-wait!" he planted his heels in the ground, feeling the carpets lumps scraping against his shoes as he tried his best to use the friction to stop himself from being dragged.

Thankfully, Michael actually stopped just in front of the back exit, though he still had his coat sleeve in an iron grip. He let out a groaned before turning around and glaring lasers at his younger brother.

_"What?"_

Chris suddenly felt ten times smaller, like a mouse looking up at a tiger. "I-I just..." he squeaked, looking down. "Why a-are ya... you t-taking _me?"_

Michael frowned annoyedly like it was the stupidest thing he's ever heard.

So Chris then continued to explain. "You ju-just... Henry can take me home again..."

 _And I don't see any reason you should want to take me back with you..._ he thought but didn't dare say.

Michael was silent for a moment, seeming to think something over. And just as the boy thought his brother would see reason, the teen asked him... well, something he never thought in a million years Michael would care about when it came to Chris.

"Did you do your homework for the week?"

The boy blinked, slightly dumbfounded. Had he actually heard that right? "I mean..." he answered slowly, thinking back. "I guess not... but-"

"Eaten dinner?"

"Uh... n-no, but-"

Michael's lips rose into the sly smile, looking like the fox from the old picture book, who'd just convinced the gingerbread man to ride on his back across the river. Chris felt a chill tingle down his spine.

"Well then. There's your reason to come home. Feel lucky that I didn't just drag you out without listening."

Then without listening to what else his brother had to say on that, the teen pushed open the exit door, walking in a fast-pace out into the open and onto the sidewalk, dragging Chris along with him.

"B-but Charlie!" the boy spluttered in a final, pathetic attempt to sway Michael. "Sh-she doesn't know I-"

"Your lady friend can afford to spend one second without you breathing down her neck. Besides, you two weren't even doing anything together. While she was having fun, you were just staring into a screen like a guy who just got his favorite magazine."

"I-I..." Chris dug for reasons why Michael was wrong in the back of his head but came up empty. Perhaps... maybe he was right. Charlie had spent weeks with no one but Chris... and he was just feeling like selfish garbage for never letting her leave.

Chris stopped resisting and walked along with Michael, who smirked, knowing he'd won.

 _I'm sorry, Charlie..._ he thought.

Just as a trickle of water wet with the bitter bite of childish shame, started to leak out of his eyes and dribble down his cheeks-

_Drip._

Something small and wet splashed onto to tip of his nose, temporarily distracting the boy from his guilt.

He looked up, still walking right beside his brother.

Dark, grey clouds were just starting to roll into the sky.

Huh. Maybe it was best that he was going home now.

It looked like it would rain tonight.


	20. Sooner that Night

Michael felt pretty proud of himself for coming up with the "do your homework" and "eat dinner excuse." Sure, he very well could've dragged his younger brother home, but Michael being sick of Chris's breakdowns was an understatement. He didn’t even need to cover the stupid Puppet’s box since a group of rambunctious little boys did it for him. So no need to worry about that.

Now Father was at work, doing whatever he did with robots (or sloshed somewhere), Chris was in his room with heated up dinner, and now it was almost seven, which meant his friends would arrive at his house shortly. So that left the brunette alone in the kitchen, pacing back and forth in the deep thought of deciding what to do.

The Afton wasn't nervous. Yes, he wasn't the best at pranks, and his friends had been pretty skeptical when he explained the one they'd pull on Chris…

“Isn’t that kinda childish? Sounds like a weird theater project…” Marianne had said.

“It’s not the weirdest thing we’ve done,” Michael argued.

"But maybe the stupidest." 

It was just her way of humor and how she talked - kinda like him. He knew that. And while he could still admit to himself that had stung a bit, there was still _no need_ for the English teen’s brain to rattle like a shelf of glassware on the brink of shattering to the ground, at the thought of his friends with their backyard pools, countless family vacation photos, and shelves of tapes in his theater room seeing his… well pretty barren house.

It was a decent size. The three siblings had each gotten their own rooms after all, and Michael probably would’ve yanked himself bald if he’d had to pick between sniveling Chris or spoiled Elizabeth. But years ago, nearly all decorations had been stripped: the painting of the London Palladium in his parent’s room, the event flyers and schoolwork that were hung up with magnates to the fridge, the family photos, the potted plant by the door, kitchen figurines, everything. It had all been taken out years ago by Father, who sucked all the color into the void. Now their gloomy grey walls had nothing but the small clock hung above the TV. Not even their kitchen table had a tablecloth or a vase of flowers to go along with it.

It made the Afton teen feel so simple and plain when thinking about what all his friends had at their houses: Tommy’s workout space in his basement with dumbbells, a treadmill, yoga mats, plus an indoor bike - Marianne’s twelve by twenty pool they’d crash when her sister wasn’t hogging it before she headed off to beauty school - and of course, Fitzgerald’s impressive collection of the best video games and films they’d watch in the theater room.

So what exactly did Michael have to offer here? His countless Immortal and the Restless tapes? No… stupid. Jeremy, the smartest guy he knew, didn’t get complex characters and a compelling plot, so no way the others would. There’d been a reason why he hardly invited them. Father already seemed to hate them enough as it was, but it mostly had to do with the previous point.

And they’d already seemed unenthused about giving Chris the scare of his life, so Michael had to give them _more_ of a reason to stay…

 _Think Afton._ **_Think!_ **

His feet somehow started to move at a brisker pace while he walked back and forth, as if they were moving as quickly as his brain rapid firing through countless options: the sketchbooks stored in his closet? Too personal… Perhaps find an animatronic from the basement?

The teen felt shivers roll down his spine. Definitely no. He’d only been down there once years ago before it had a lock - when his young self wanted to explore their new house - and mainly remembered it being cold and dark, with a million glowing eyes following your every room… he hadn’t even managed to make it past the final step. Then Father had been at the top of the stairs when he turned back...

Michael’s gut squeezed with anger at himself; he was _not_ scared of a freakin’ basement filled with a bunch of empty heads. He hardly noticed it was there anymore. It was simply because the door was locked and Father had the only key. Plus it’d probably be something his friend’s would hate…

_Why did I even bother considering something so idiotic...?_

Letting out an annoyed huff at the time he was wasting, the teen tried to think back to anything he’d loved to do before. Drawing… no, his art sucked... smashing stuff with his baseball bat… alright, nobody besides him seemed to enjoy that… so maybe… if it really came down to it... cooking? Hrm… not the best thing in the world, but it was the best he could do on short notice. But what could he make before they got here that'd be tasty? Scones? No, no, not enough time… something simpler… crackers? Hmm… on the right track, but that sounded a bit _too_ simple... and dry… what had Michael made that was still good yet impressive?

As if it were a trigger, a memory from what seemed like forever ago sparked back into his mind, causing the Afton to stop in his tracks - he was little, and thus had to stand on a wooden stool inorder to watch soft, elegant fingers dusted white, rolling out a slab of dough in firm, yet graceful strokes over a floured counter. Michael had wanted his hands to work like those ones, so he continued to watch and watch like a hawk - watch those hands work and play and bend and stretch the elastic substance over and over until they were ready to cut the dough into perfect six-centimeter circles. Once they came off the pan, they were gone in under thirty minutes. It was really strange thinking about how much they’d all love to eat then… and how much he and Liz especially would fight over who got the last of whatever was on the tray. It’d been chaotic, yet strangely, at the same time, an also somewhat natural cycle which would continue with each new dish she and Michael made together, as his mum taught the boy a new trick and tip each time.

_Bloody Hell… has it really been that long?_

…

The only essence of any sound present was the tiny _ticking_ of the family’s one small clock.

..................................................................

The Afton wiped his cheek, feeling the small wet stream smear across his right hand.

…

_Not then. Not today._

He took in a deep, calming breath through his nose.

_No time to waste time._

So bloody nostalgia aside, Michael then decided to get started. He hurriedly opened their pantry, scanning rows and rows of empty shelves for what he needed. Luckily, the ingredients were all pretty simple. He listed off each one in his head as he grabbed them off the shelves then placed them by the counter: flour, sugar, baking powder, some cinnamon… that should be all he needed from the pantry.

Micheal moved onto the fridge next: butter, milk, an egg… wait, hold up, did they have lard? He shoved aside containers, his stomach doing flip-flops as if he was in the final round of a game show.

Damn it, where was it? The cakes wouldn’t get the right texture if he didn’t have it!

The teen let out a sigh when he eventually found a small jar filled with the white, jelly-like fat in the farthest corner behind some bananas. He put it with all the other ingredients, then hurriedly got to work, first mixing all the dry ingredients together, before slicing up the butter and lard, then crumbling it into the bowl, squeezing and mushing the slick, yellow and white substances into powdered chunks. Then the egg for a nice bake. Ok, good, now he needed to add-

His hands grabbed empty air.

He whipped his head around. **_Damn it!_** He’d forgotten about currants! Quickly wiping his buttery hands off on a towel, the Afton husked back to the fridge, then shuffled around every parcel he could find for the small purple and red berries. Nothing.

He let out a groan. Great. Freakin’ _great._ Like he would find any of the berries in bloody _Utah._

Michael let out a low growl, digging his hand deeper into the vault, scraping through all kinds of grub for a legitimate substitute.

His eyes eventually landed on something.

Ugh. Fine. He’d use the old-ass blueberries. And if his friends got sick, he’d drink sewage water to get even.

Michael stomped back to his workspace, throwing the small berries in with the mixture, plus a splash of milk since it was looking a bit dry.

He took a deep breath, letting the air out in a frustrated _whoosh._ ** _Nothing._** To be nervous about. Next was rolling out the dough. Working faster, the amateur baker sprinkled flour over the wooden countertop, then slabbed the pale dough on its surface.

The Afton then grabbed a rolling pin from a drawer, and got to work with flattening the dough; rolling and flipping, flipping, and rolling. It felt good. Surprisingly good. He needed a way to release the tension building up in his hands. Speaking of hands, his right had finally healed, though in its place of the wound was a long scar from the top and bottom corner of his palm. And as for his left? Well, a couple of weeks ago at school wasn’t the last time he punched something he shouldn’t have, and right now... it was still slightly quivering…

He clenched his jaw.

 _These are gonna taste like shit._ Bloody… what had he even been thinking pulling this rubbish out of his ass? Once in a blue moon, he’d had the luxury of eating five-star food at Marianne’s parents when they actually let “a bunch of boys over,” so if she and Tommy ate like that every day, then why the Hell did he think these practically peasants biscuits- were gonna impress them? And what was he even gonna say when they got here? The most American-British thing ever? “Pup, pup, cheerio m’ jolly mates! Would ya fancy a wee goody I made just for you lot? It’s me mum’s recipe! Why, crumpets and booze, I just love-

**_KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK_ **

Michael felt his body spike, nearly jumping out of his skin. In another split second, the Afton whipped around, rolling pin in his hand like he was ready for a bake war.

It took him too long to realize the sound was a knock on the door, which meant that his friends must’ve arrived.

Michael relaxed his muscles and got out of his battle stance, internally cursing himself.

_Bloody hell, I may actually be losing it…_

“Come in!” he then called out, since he didn’t want to open the door with the dough and flour that covered his hands.

The doorknob turned, and a familiar pale face poked in, most of his blond hair covered by a wet hood. 

“Uh, hi.” Jeremy greeted. “Can I come in?”

Michael snorted. “No. Just sit out there and catch a cold.”

Jeremy’s cheeks flushed. “Right. Right. Sorry.” The lanky teen then stepped inside, wiping off his dripping sneakers on the indoor mat before taking them off. Speaking of dripping, the neon yellow, blue, green windbreaker he had on was nearly soaked. Jeremy seemed to notice because he soon unzipped and took it off, revealing a blue NASA shirt.

“Um… sorry, where do you want me to put this?” Fitzgerald asked, holding up his wet windbreaker.

Michael shrugged (though he slightly felt his eye twitch from the s- word). “One of the chairs at the table is fine.”

Jeremy nodded, doing just that. 

“Is it just you, mate?” Michael asked when seeing nobody else come through the door.

His friend nodded, staying by the table. “Yeah, sorry… I know that I’m a bit early, but I wanted to beat-”

“Alright, Fitzgerald, new rule in my house" the shorter of the two interrupted," - you’re not allowed to say sorry unless you burn down the house.”

Jeremy gaped a bit before rolling his eyes, walking over to him and his mess. “I’m just trying to be polite, Mike.”

“You said it enough times when I was at your house that it's more annoying than _polite_.” Plus, there was hardly a reason for someone like Jeremy to apologize for anything. 

Speaking of the guy, he simply sighed in what sounded like tiredness, letting it go, and instead, turned his attention to the counter. “So what’re you making?”

“Huh? Oh. This.” It took him a second to remember what he’d been doing. “Mmm… just some welsh cakes.”

Jeremy tilted his head, curious. “Never heard of ‘em. I’m assuming they’re from the UK?”

“Mm, yeah… it, uh… was something my mum used to make. I’d help her.” It came out way less casual than he was hoping. He then felt ashamed for potentially _sounding_ ashamed.

 _Shit,_ he thought when his friend didn't say anything. 

Their moment of awkward silence stretched further. Jeremy seemed to be staring off in far, undecipherable thought. Which was frustrating, but was still fine with Michael, so long as he didn’t show him any empty sorrows that wouldn't change anything... though thinking about it now, surely Jeremy knew him well enough to know _that_...

As is reading his mind, his friend spoke, albeit slowly and carefully. “Ok... cool, so…” he seemed to be searching for a sentence. “How do you make them?”

Michael couldn't help but snort, though he was thankful for the change in subject. “Are you really that bored here Fitzgerald? You’re welcome to surf channels.”

“Hey, I’m not bored! I wanna know.”

Michael sighed. “Look I get it, and it’s fine. I’ll just finish up here and you can-”

“No Mike, you _don’t_ get it. _”_

Michael blinked, double-checking that he'd heard that right.

Woah… he looked back at his taller friend. Jeremy actually looked _angry._ He was frowning hard and his fists were slightly clenched.

What the hell was this?

“What?' Michael challenged, already feeling his temper rise. "What don’t I get?”

“That you always do this!”

“Stop being cryptic.”

“Ugh, I mean-" Jeremy threw his hands up. "whenever I want to hang out with you - or do something _you_ enjoy - you always wanna call it off.” 

“Because you don’t like it!”

“That’s not the point!”

“Ok, then what is it, smartass?”

Jeremy looked like Michael had just asked the most mental question in existence. And he answered like it too.“I _like_ being around you! We’re friends! Years, Mike. _Years_ we’ve been friends a-and… and” he sighed, going quiet as fast as he'd gotten angry. Apparently already exhausted by those burning emotions. He looked down at his feet for a while, before speaking in a small voice.

“It feels like you never want to be around me…”

Silence, as Michael processed his friend’s words, letting them burn into his brain.

He felt his fists clench.

Then finally- “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Fitzgerald's head snapped up. “H-huh?”

“What the hell do you mean ‘I don’t like to be around you?’ What kind of rubbish are you shitting out? You just said it yourself that we’ve been friends for years.”

“Yeah?” he still somehow looked small and confused

“So how could you be this stupid to say I don’t like hangin’ out with you? If that were true, I wouldn’t have tolerated you and your tendencies for this bloody long.”

“But… Marianne and Tommy.”

“You think I want alone time with _Tommy?_ What the hell do you think of me? And Marianne…” Michael felt his cheeks start to flush a bit. “I don’t think she wants that… but anyways, the point is- yes, you gormless yank with cow meat for brains - I _do_ like being around your dumb ass.”

“Then… why do you always-”

“Bloody hell, are you still not listening? We’re different, and we like different things. I get that you don’t like things I like, no matter how superior my taste is. So it’s better if you spend your time doing something _you’d_ enjoy.”

“I… Mike…” he then _chuckled. Chuckled_ while they were having an _argument._ “Ah… This is gonna sound cheesy as hell - but sometimes… friends do things they may not enjoy _with_ their friends…” 

“Why?”

“Because they just enjoy seeing their pals happy. And, uh… I may not exactly enjoy the activities, but they’re harmless, so…” He shrugged. “I’m just happy being around y- any friends.”

Silence.

Michael then let out a groan. “Ugh, you really are a sap.”

Jeremy grinned. “So will you show how you make… what are they called...?”

“Welsh cakes. And _fine._ If you won’t shut up about it.”

Jeremy cringed, making the guilt face again. “Oh shoot, I-I didn't mean to... I’m-”

 _“Shhhhhhhh!”_ Bloody hell, Michael _hated_ it when Jeremy made that face. It made him feel like there was a parasite mushing around his insides. “Take a joke for once, Fitzgerald.” He let out a huff. “Why do you always feel guilty about everything?”

He shrugged. “I… I dunno… I guess… if I speak up too much, someone’ll get offended?”

“Pfft. I can't believe what I'm hearing. Stupid. Someone, somewhere’s, gonna get pissed off about everything - that’s what I’ve learned.”

He smirked. “Is that why you don’t have a filter?”

“Yep.”

More bloody quiet.

“Sssoooo… the welsh cakes?”

“Hm? Oh right.” Michael remembered that his hands were still white and sticky with flour. “Alright, well, you’ve already missed the excitement of mixing flour with butter and lard - and as you can see, the dough’s all rolled out, so all that’s left is cutting ‘em in circles, then cooking ‘em on a pan.”

“What’s lard?” he asked out-of-the-blue.

“Oh. Kinda like butter, but pig fat scraps.”

“So why do you need lard specifically?”

“It gives it a better texture. Makes it flakier.”

Jeremy nodded. And if Michael were being honest, he did look generally interested.

As Michael started the cutting and actual cooking, Jeremy continued to ask questions and Michael continued to answer. Jeremy wanted to know pretty much what every ingredient did to the pastries. And Michael…

Well, Michael was _happy_ to answer.

He tried to not let any knots in his stomach get in the way of that. The thought that on the inside, this was all torture for Jeremy… 

Pssh, it wasn't… and even if it was, then why should he care? This was Jeremy’s choice… Jeremy’s choice for _himself. Not_ Michael. He was smarter than that. 

Too soon it felt like, the welsh cakes were done. Which meant that Jeremy stopped talking. 

“Wow, Mike, these look great!” he complimented as the shorter brunette used a turner to set the last one on a plate with all the others.

“Hrmm…” Michael wasn’t too sure about that. The ones from his memory had an autumn-flakey-leaf-like outside, with a puffed-up middle, like a heated marshmallow; these ones, however, were more flat, and their skin was drier. Closer to a pancake.

“They’re ok.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Come on Mike, give yourself some credit! I bet they taste great.”

 _Not as good as Mum’s._ Especially since he didn’t have any currants…

“Maybe. It’s pretty much just quick bread.”

“Well, am _I_ allowed to try one and judge?”

“Let’s wait till-”

**_RRrrrriiiiiiinnnnggggGGG!_ **

The phone.

“Uh, shoot. Lemme get that.”

“Sure.”

Michael quickly rinsed the crap off his hands, then headed over to the shrilling, red rotary phone by their couch, while Jeremy stayed by the counter, glancing back and forth at the fresh pastries.

“This is the Afton’s,” he said once the phone was up to his ear.

“Michael? It’s Marianne.”

He immediately smiled. “Marianne! Hey, what’s up? Uh…” he fake coughed, collecting himself. 

_Stop acting bloody mental._

“Sooooo, will you be here soon?”

“About that - no, I’m sorry, but I won’t. And neither will Tommy.”

Oh.

Michael felt his smile sink down with his mood, causing his chest to tighten as well. “Why not?” Damn it… had he said something bad? Maybe they found out how boring his house was… or maybe she’d finally called it off because of the whole ‘scaring Chris with Fredbear’s and Friend’s’ mask plan.

“Michael, it’s _hell_ outside.” She said instead. 

He frowned, a bit caught off guard. “Really?” Actually, ok, now that she’d said it… he could definitely make out the sound of tiny pellets hitting the roof just above his head, as if it were a million bullets were falling from the clouds. Plus a rumbling of thunder, like the universe, wanted to prove his bad luck to him.

 _“Yes._ Neither of us are gonna ride out in that - and our parents don’t wanna screw up their cars.” 

He spoke in a smaller voice than he'd intended. “Oh… ok. It’s ok.”

“I know it is. But still, sorry we couldn’t make it. Maybe next time?”

Michael cleared his throat, doing his best to mask the disappointment in his voice. 

“Yeah, yeah, totally. If you want to - so don’t worry about it.” 

“I’m not. See ya later Michael.”

He could hear a muffled, but familiar annoying voice in the background.

“And Tommy says hi.”

“Tell him to suck a dick.”

“Will do. Bye.”

“Bye M-” 

**_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep_ **

“Marianne…”

Nothing but the pelting rain filled the house with noise.

“Hey, so…” Jeremy then chimed in awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess you were talking to Marianne… what’d she say?”

“Nothing.” Michael snapped, slamming the phone down before flopping on the couch and reeling his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “She and Tommy won’t be able to come.”

“Oh…” Jeremy glanced at the kitchen window to his left. “Because of the storm?”

“Yeah.” 

Jeremy then walked over and sat on the couch with him. “Well that sucks.” 

“Duh.”

An awkward silence.

“Um… do you mind me being here?”

Michael let out the biggest groan anyone’s ever groaned. _“Jeremy. We just talked about-”_

“I know, I know! But what I mean is… my parents are probably worried, but I don’t want them to drive in this, even if it is a short difference, so…” his voice trailed off into thin air, while he started playing with his hands. 

Michael raised an eyebrow.

“You wanna stay here the night?”

“W-well!” his cheeks looked as if they’d been painted the color of strawberries. “Not the _whole_ night - j-just until the storm’s over! B-but if you-”

_I'm about to slap this man._

_“Sure.”_ The words had escaped Michael’s lips before he could think about it. He’d just wanted Jeremy to _stop_ stuttering, without Michael touching him.

Jeremy’s blond eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really?”

Michael processed what he'd just said.

“Uh…” crap, crap, crap. His Father’s bone-chilling anger - which could put this storm to shame - already felt _real -_ as if Michael was gazing into his worst possible future _._ He should just say no… but… bloody hell, it really did sound _awful_ out there - like the sky itself might tear apart. Did he seriously want Jeremy or his nice folks to go out in _that?_

Before he could make a decision, Jeremy seemed to read his mind. “Oh, right… your dad would probably freak, huh?”

Michael didn’t answer. He felt stuck.

“W-well don’t worry about it, Mike. I-I’ll just-”

The answer to his question suddenly became that obvious in an instant.

“No.”

“Huh?”

Michael sighed, though he'd already made up his mind. He couldn’t believe he was about to say this… “Look, neither you or your parents are gonna go out there to be killed - and while yes, my dad _wouldn’t_ be ok with it…” he took a deep breath. “You can just stay in my room. He won’t find out.”

_I pray to God he won’t._

For a single moment, his friend didn't seem to believe his words.

“Y-you’re sure? Like, sure? I really can just-”

 **_“Bloody hell, yes!”_ ** Michael threw his hands up, absolutely _done_ with this repetitive back and forth between them - which felt like they were both ping pong players who refused to make a move. **_“YES._ ** _Just... “_ he took a deep breath when seeing how startled his lanky friend looked. “Just call you folks, tell them the situation, and _shut up_ about it.”

Jeremy didn’t say anything. For a second, Michael was afraid he went too far and somehow broke his friend mentally. But then, with wide grey eyes, Jeremy simply nodded, then walked over and picked up the phone, spinning in what must’ve been his parents’ house number.

 _Thank God…_ Michael thought, just glad for the moment of peace.

But now that raised a question: what exactly were they going to _do?_ It was a dice throw when talking about the time his father would get home, and while Michael had already been risking Snake Eyes if his old man found out about his three other friends being here, hiding one of them in his room like stolen goods was an _entirely_ different game. The Afton teen had just been planning to shoo his pals out the back quick and simple once he heard the garage opening... not _hide them in his room!_ And where was Jeremy gonna sleep? The floor where he could be spotted? His closet? In his b-

 _Nope._ He chucked that idea _far, far away_ before it could even be in there for a _millisecond._ He didn’t even want to consider _that._

“Mike?”

The teen snapped his head towards his friend’s voice. “Hm?”

“Uh… my dad wants to talk to you.”

Oh great. Well, time to wire up his acting chops and feed some fibs.

Michael took the phone from Jeremy, took a deep breath of confidence, then said in his typical non-nervous Michael tone- “Hey Mr. Fitzgerald. What d’ya need?”

Jeremy’s dad’s voice pretty much sounded like what Michael imagined Jeremy to sound like when he was an adult: college kid like and maybe really loved coffee - though a bit more easy-going.

“Hi, Michael. Is your Father there?”

“No sir, sorry. At work. Always busy ya know?”

“Well, I’d just like to make sure he’s ok with Jeremy staying over.” 

Michael chuckled a believable chuckle. “Oh, don’t worry. I just barely asked him over the phone. He’s usually not one for visitors, but understands because of the storm.” He tightened his grip over the phone. His palm was so sweaty it made him feel like he was trying to clutch wet soap. 

_Don't call my dad. Don't call my dad,_ he repeatedly prayed.

“Well… will your dad be home soon?”

“Oh yeah. He should be on his way by now.” 

_Probably to a bar…_

Silence rang over the phones, which meant the head Fitzgerald must've been thinking about the Afton's lies.

Michael waited with a pounding heart and twitching veins for the final verdict. For a moment, he was sure the older Fitzgerald was going to decline - but then, as if a miracle from Heaven’s clouds - the huge snappening crack of a lighting bolt **_ZZZZAAAAAPPPPEEED_ **what felt like just inches from Michael’s house, causing the two boys to jump. Mr. Fitzgerald must’ve been spooked too because-

“Alright, but only because it’s a Friday… and I know what it’s like to not wanna have the adults around - especially when I was your guy's age. I’ll pick him up in the morning if this hurricane’s blown over - or he can ride his bike over..”

It took everything Michael had not to collapse from relief. “Ok. Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“T-thanks Dad!” Jeremy called into the phone.

“Sure thing kiddo. Love you Jer.”

“You too!”

That familiar, annoying beep rang through the Afton’s eardrums.

“Gee, thanks Mike.” Jeremy looked down a bit sheepishly. “B-but I’m still s-”

“Jeremy.” For some reason, Michael felt as if he’d just run the second hardest and longest in his life. Almost every part of him wreaked with sweat. He didn't even think about the natural love and tenderness Jeremy and his Father had, which Michael obviously lacked. 

“What?”

“Has the house burned down?”

…

“No…”

“Then don’t.” Michael then practically collapsed on the couch, hoping he’d never have to get up again.

After an eternity of silence, Jeremy broke it with an awkward cough. “Well.. would you wanna try to prank your brother? He's here isn't he?"

Michael frowned. Wait, was Chris here? Yes, he'd put the little man in his room, but...

_Where is he?_

The Afton used all his strength to stand up.

"Wait here," he told his friend before walking down the hall. 

He first put his ear up to the door, where he could almost immediately hear the small voice of Chris talking. Probably to one of his stuffed animals.

Michael let out a sigh of relief, then returned to his long, blond friend and the glorious comfort of the sofa.

"Yeah, he's there," Michael answered after Jeremy first asked the question minutes ago. "And no- I don't feel like doin' it right now."

Jeremy nodded as if he understood how his friend felt. "Alright... would you wanna try those welsh cakes then?" there was a tinge of eagerness to his voice.

Michael was about to decline, but the growl of his stomach said otherwise. He didn’t feel like getting up, plus what he made beat any frozen dinner garbage waiting in the freezer.

“Sure,” he answered with a sigh. 

Jeremy didn’t need telling twice. Before he knew it, the tall blond was back on the couch with him, and a plate of still-warm welsh cakes.

They suddenly looked way better.

And the taste...

The first bite alone sent a nostalgic sensation that exploded on his tongue, then coursed down into the tempo of his heart, to every cold vein in his body.

_Liz probably would've stolen the whole plate..._

“Hey,” Jeremy said, snapping the Afton out of his thoughts, just as he was finishing up his first.

“Hm?”

Jeremy gazed at him with more seriousness than what was warranted with the next statement. “Let’s watch Immortal and the Restless.”

Michael swallowed, frowning. “You don’t like it.”

“No, not really,” he replied rather honestly. “But I know _you_ do - and that’s why I like watching it.” He then gave his friend a small but sweet smile.

What a nice smile…

Michael scoffed, then rolled his eyes, sick and tired of the arguing. “Fine, whatever. But no complaints about art.”

His friend chuckled. “Can I ask questions?”

Michael sighed, not really understanding why he enjoyed this so much. 

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOORAY. IT'S DONE.
> 
> So, aha, funny story - I originally wrote the entire first half on Wordpad right? WELL. My dum-dum brain forgot to save it, so one night, when I closed my computer, and opened it back up in the morning, everything had been deleted! Though honestly, maybe it was more of a blessing, because the second half of this chapter ended up being WAY different than it was originally intended. To say the least, it's a lot more wholesome :D
> 
> A-n-y-who... as always, thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It was surprisingly fun to write. See ya'll next time!


	21. Later that Night

Charlotte Emily liked Chris. A lot. She really did, and she completely understood why he was so clingy… she never wanted to leave her father's side when her mother passed away… so of course, Chris would be like this, especially after what _he saw_ happened to Liz…

Her insides _squelched_ with grief.

Elizabeth… Charlie's best friend for as long as she could remember. For what felt like, since the beginning, it seemed like the universe wanted them to be friends: they'd both lost their mothers, their dad's too were best friends, they'd been born the same year, and every new grade of school, they'd end up being in the same classes.

Yes, Liz could be pretty blunt and… could get _very_ upset if she didn't get her way, but Charlie always saw past all of that. Liz was never afraid to speak her mind, even to boys and adults, plus the English ginger-haired girl had stood up for Charlie more times than she could count. Always, she was almost always able to talk her way out of anything and was just _so good_ at talking people out of their bad feelings.

Liz was also a really great fake crier when talking wasn't convenient for in the situation. Instead, she would burst into the heart-wrenching tears of a victimized, bullied little girl in pain, whenever a teacher came to see what the commotion was all about. Charlie couldn't do that, and even if she could, she wouldn't want to… it always seemed like lying.

"It's not lying. It's pretending. Like one of our games." she would say. "And I'm _really_ good at pretending."

Liz always seemed good at anything she tried: singing, dancing, coloring, bracelet weaving, everything - like she'd been blessed at birth with a whole color palette of talents. Liz also said she was like that because there was no reason to doubt herself. Charlie wasn't too sure about that mentality… humility was important for others to truly recognize your skills, her dad told her.

Still, as great as she was, Liz was far from perfect, but so was Charlie and pretty much everyone, so who was she to judge?

Though if there was one thing… one thing that really got under her skin... was that it was easy for the freckle-faced girl to hate... and that was probably (to her guilt) what she disliked the most about her best friend… just because she said it so regularly.

"That stupid Veronica stole my pencil. She's getting a hair pulling after school."

"Jim told me I wasn't cute - but ugly. Ugly as a toad! Tomorrow, I'm going to cry when he walks by me and tell everyone he hit me."

"I didn't get an invite to Kate's party, so she _accidentally_ fell in the mud."

So soon everyone knew to never mess with the darling little Afton girl, and thus, not mess with her best friend.

At least, that's what Charlie thought.

Because someone _did_ mess with Elizabeth Afton.

And now she was gone.

For weeks now Charlie had cried herself to sleep knowing there'd possibly be no more playdates, or jewelry making, or hair braiding. She cried at night since she held in just about every drop of water that wanted to spill from her eyes. Every day all day she wanted to cry - but Charlie knew she couldn't do that - because Chris needed someone strong in his life right now, and he had a better reason to be vulnerable.

Which was why the brunette girl couldn't shake these sandbags of guilt off her shoulders as she watched the two golden animatronics sing their classic duets. Yes, Charlie had missed them. A lot. She knew they weren't "real," but Fredbear and Spring Bonnie had been one of the most defining moments of her childhood. She'd known them her whole life. And even if at the end of the day, they were just metal wirings and circuits that could also be worn as a springlock costume - the Emily girl still felt as if she knew them personally. That would always be real.

It'd also almost been a month since she really watched their show, which felt crazy, considering how often she used to come to the place. But she and her dad had gone out of state to not only visit grandparents, but also so Dad could get some final, crucial parts for his new state-of-the-art Security Puppet. He'd been pretty excited about it for a while. Keeping Charlie updated on "their special little secret surprise for the pizzeria." Probably to keep himself from spilling it to anyone else.

On the topic of the Puppet, she didn't really see the "creepiness" other kids talked about. Maybe it'd just been because she grew up with all kinds of "creepy" robots around her. Still, though, it didn't have the bulky, large intimidating figures of the other animatronics - it was slim, spindly, and black to hide in shadows - though Charlie knew the robot was _much_ stronger than what most people first thought.

Charlie looked back down at the bright green, plastic-like bracelet - the strange technology connected to the Puppet - that she had to wear every time she came here. She really didn't mind at all, but something quite odd was that every single time, Charlie _always_ had to wear a green one - and the _only_ green one. When asking her dad, he simply smiled and said-

"Because it's your favorite color sweetheart."

Well, it wasn't like that was untrue.

Something about the explanation still didn't sit right with the Emily girl, but when thinking about it, ultimately decided not to press anymore. She trusted her dad above anybody.

Speaking of, sometimes her father himself would perform in the Fredbear suit - at least he used to - so did Will in Spring Bonnie, until their business started booming was what she was told. It made sense considering they built them, designed the one-of-a-kind feature. And ever since she could understand words, her father made it clear as day how sensitive the gears and locks of the springlock suits could be - which meant _never ever_ try to poke even a finger inside if you weren't trained. Speaking of, it was kinda funny how private the two could be about their performing career. While her dad definitely enjoyed it - seeing the kids smiling whenever the grandfatherly Fredbear in his purple hat and bow-tie came from behind the curtain - she could also tell it was a bit embarrassing for him, at least in adult conversations. Which, when examining it from his now meeting-filled serious life, she could understand.

And as for Will… well, if she was going to be completely honest, it was almost _scary_ how much the more "businessman" of the two's personality changed when he was in the yellow rabbit suit. Charlie had memories of him performing in it for Chris' sixth birthday party awhile back - and the way he could flip, cartwheel, dance, and belt out notes in a considerably _bulky_ costume was award-worthy. She'd never even see fabric mascots at sports games do stuff like that. But like her dad, he almost never talked about it outside of the pizzeria. Yet it always seemed different when William performed compared to her dad. It was almost like his mind was overtaken by the happy, mischievous go-lucky rabbit.

But then Charlie would always end up feeling bad by being a bit creeped out by the turning behavior… after all, it must've been pretty stressful always being in so many meetings every day, so maybe William being in the rabbit animatronic gave him a chance to release his inner child. He'd been one way-back-when after all. Everyone had a time when they were once innocent.

Now Fredbear and Bonnie were in animatronic mode, moving around in the jerky, robotic movements while they performed. Charlie still enjoyed it, and so did all the other kids, who were either sitting at a table with their parents or on the ground right in front of the stage.

Charlie had her own little table in the back. She didn't mind. Just wanted to watch for a bit.

But as the show went on, she found that she couldn't enjoy it like she used to.

Because something continually pricked at the back of her head. An image, quickly making its way to the front of her vision. Two sad, large green eyes that always seemed to want to cry, even when he was smiling. Eyes that held the window to his very soul. A soul that now reflected back an untold tragedy, and was now a shattered mirror of what it used to be, yet wasn't able to pick up the pieces or fit them back together. His eyes always said everything.

Charlie felt her eyes start to tear up.

Wow, she'd really been awful enough to leave Chris by himself. And just when he had a panic attack… why had she believed him when he told her he'd be ok? Because he'd forced an innocent smile? Because of her own self-interest?

Charlie had been in her own head for so long that she didn't even notice the purple curtain was now closing, meaning the show was over. Kids were already out of their seats and heading back into the arcade room.

The brunette girl felt her stomach drop.

 _Oh, no…_ Chris _hated_ large crowds - and it was even busier today since it was a Friday…

Without a moment of hesitation, Charlie stood up, almost running past the tables and employee Clare at the prize counter, into the game room.

"Chris?" she called out among what felt like dozens of pizza-filled children of every kind laughing up a storm above carnival-like music and sound effects as they played with one another. Boys, girls, short kids, tall kids, lighter kids, darker kids, kids with hats and glasses, braces, and sneakers and dresses, and raincoats. But no Chris.

She walked deeper into the area, analyzing every spot, under every crawl-space, and even some corners where he may have decided to hide.

Still nothing.

She put a finger to her chin, thinking.

Ok, there was still no need to panic, no need for her breathing to start speeding or her heart to start pounding. If he was taken, then the Security Puppet would've been alerted… right?

Charlie somehow frowned harder, for some reason unsure, as she walked back out of the loud room. _Had_ he decided to leave? No, that didn't seem likely… going out in the open by himself... but wait, there was someone she hadn't considered: what about Michael, his grumpy older brother? Hadn't he been sulking in the shadows earlier, or did she just imagine it? Some days he was here and some he wasn't. Then again... hmm... Michael dragging his little brother home whether Chris wanted it or not sounded reasonably in character. But even so, that still raised the question - why didn't the Security Puppet do anything to stop him? Chris had been put on a bracelet when they got here.

Well, if there was something wrong with it, surely her father would want to know…

Charlie then retraced most of her steps, again passing the prize counter where Clare (who she and Liz used to nickname Clare who doesn't Care), a baggy-eyed, curly-haired blond woman her dad had taken pity on, who was sitting at the counter with head focus on a… exposed magazine. She couldn't exactly say the other employees, if they were even there, were much better. It was no wonder they needed more advanced security!

The Puppet's box was located to the right of the stage in a little corner, right by the main room's exit door and the _**EMPLOYEES ONLY**_ room.

But as Charlie got closer, she could immediately tell what the problem was; a large box was placed over the Puppet's lid, making it impossible for it to get out.

The small girl in her green jacket immediately felt her face scrunch together in annoyance. Why would someone do this?

Letting out an annoyed huff, she then walked up to a white present box wrapped with a red ribbon, which held the sleeping marionette. Speaking of, the box was considerably big - about a head taller than her. Still, she should be able to reach the smaller box on top…

Just as Charlie stood on her tippy-toes and out-stretched her arms, a gruff yet young voice caught her attention. It almost came out like a growl.

"Hey. You."

Charlie went back down on her heels then turned around. And right in front of her were not one, not two, but three _mean-looking_ boys who were each taller and bigger than her, while also resembling an angry pack of street dogs. And right now, they were bearing their yellow fangs at her. They looked vaguely familiar though. So whether or not they were a grade higher in her school or just didn't come to Fredbear's that often, she wasn't sure.

The one in the middle, who was the biggest with a red face and black beads for eyes and buzzcut, spoke first and had the same gritty voice as the one who called her out.

"Wha d'ya think you're doing?"

"I'm going to take this box off the Security Puppet," she replied honestly, gesturing to the inconvenience right behind her. "Would you please help?"

The one to Buzzcut's left, a pointy kid stuck with big ears and the face of a hairless chihuahua, laughed. And he laughed like one too.

" _We're_ the ones who put it on, stupid."

His friends burst into the same mocking laughter.

Charlie could feel her head growing hot.

But as soon as it was detected, she took in a long, deep breath through her nose, thinking about a stream flowing through the mountains or white clouds floating across in the sky. Think of nice, calming things and count to ten when you feel your mind growing hot, her mother used to say.

Charlie only got to three when she decided to speak her mind.

"The Puppet's meant to protect us," she reasoned in a calm tone. "So it can't have a box on it."

The final, and shortest one with a lizard-like grin hissed out a scoff- "A retarded thing is what it is. Yesterday we tried to leave - and it snuck up behind an' wouldn't let us go, it didn't."

"Yeah, the damn twig thing somehow had an iron grip!" Pointy added.

Charlie frowned. She didn't remember that happening. She and Chris must've left before that apparent ordeal went down. "You should've gotten your bracelet removed."

"Don't matter." Buzzcut sneered. "We don't like it. So we ain't gonna let _you_ screw up our hard work." He and his pals suddenly tensed up.

The Emily girl felt her heartbeat start to speed up… this wasn't good. She was outnumbered and all the boys were bigger and most definitely stronger than her. But Clare was here, and surely other employees so maybe if she-

"Hel-!" Charlie only managed to get the first syllable out before something hard and meaty connected with her gut. She was so shocked that in the first moment it took a split second longer for the pain to really sink in. But when it did, it _did._ The girl spluttered out spit and keeled over, just managing to keep herself from collapsing. She looked up, squinting. Buzzcut was just inches from her, his large hands clenched in a fist. He'd moved way faster than she'd been expecting.

Charlie decided right then and there to switch tactics. Now all she cared about was getting away. Swallowing down greasy pizza bile, she moved fast, diving past Buzzcut. But his pointy buddy had been prepared. Just as she was about to get up and run, a dry hand caught onto her ankle and dragged her back. Charlie yelped, but nothing more, because in just another moment, Lizard held her in an iron headlock, covering her mouth with the pit of his elbow, so her cries of help were reduced to nothing but muffles.

Now Charlotte Emily didn't believe in violence. The first time she had hurt someone - when she was just five and a boy snuck up behind her during preschool playtime, so without thinking, she'd whipped around and shoved him to the ground, with there just-so-happening to be plastic building blocks right where he fell - had ended with Charlie arguably sobbing harder than the other kid.

But today, right now, nearly all of those fears vanish. Charlie's first instinct was almost always talk-it-out, then if that didn't work flight. But now, as her intakes of air were blocked off while being dragged to the exit, every muscle in her body snapped to fight.

The small girl felt her fingernails dig, and dig _deep_ into warm flesh. Lizard seemed shocked, since he cursed, cringing in pain, and for a split second, as his grip loosened. She thought she'd actually be able to get away.

She was wrong.

Because as if just remembering they had hands, the other two leaped for her four other free limbs. Buzzcut had her wrists and Pointy her ankles. And not a moment later, Lizard had found his grip again, _squeezing_ his arm against her face.

Charlie continued to do her best to punch and kick and break free - but each boy held onto her like ropes of iron. Her eyes danced frantically around for somebody - _anybody -_ that could possibly help, but the only adults there was a teen employee with huge headphones on wiping down tables, and two moms chatting up a storm. Neither noticed the quiet child-mugging going on in the corner.

Charlie felt silent tears stream down her eyes and her vision start to turn dark. She couldn't breathe, and as each second passed fighting drained her energy even more. But just as she thought she was going to blackout, she suddenly seemed to enter an entirely different world; because a horribly cold breeze slapped her face, as if trying to wake her up. In just another moment, Charlie was soaked and flying and _breathing_. She only then realized that she'd been thrown outside, and was just milliseconds from landing on pavement.

She just managed to brace herself - throwing her arms in front of her face as they _ssscccrrraaaapppppeeeedddd_ against pavement, tearing through her green jacket.

_Pitter patter._

A stunned Charlie simply laid there face down for a moment taking quick breath after quick breath, as tiny, but bullet-like pellets of freezing spring water rained down, Then, as if her body was more aware of the dangers than her, she felt herself sit up, and check the left arm that'd taken most of the fall. The sleeve was ruined and so was the white-sleeve of the shirt she was wearing under it. But besides some scratches and a few dribbles of red that were immediately washed away by the rain, she was fine.

If falling itself in hail-like rain wasn't enough to wake the Emily out of her daze, then the white-hot flash that lit up the sky with an astounding _CccRrrrRRAaaaAACCcKKkkK certainly was._

Charlie felt a shriek escape her throat, but could hardly hear it against the million little _pitter-patters_ that stretched all across Hurricane.

In the next moment, Charlie realized that she was completely soaked from head to toe. And was cold. And crying.

The girl limply stood up, holding back loud sobs. Why she bothered she wasn't sure. She just needed to get inside.

Like a moth to a flame, Charlie felt herself being drawn straight up to the first source of light she saw - a large window with a warm yellow glow. It looked like Heaven against this Hell.

Shivering, she pressed her hand up against the wet glass, peering in. Right in front of her were the three boys, who appeared to be laughing their heads off.

Charlie felt her temper rise. "Let me in!" she cried out, but knew deep down that it was pointless. Her voice was almost entirely lost in the storm.

But then, Pointy actually noticed. The bony kid nudged his pals, pointing at the wet, crying child. Buzzcut smirked wickedly, waved, then promptly gave her the bird.

Charlie stared, dumbfounded.

The punk boys continued their snickering for a bit longer, but only a bit longer, before turning around towards the game room.

"W-wait!" she once again sobbed out. Again and again, pounding on the window. "Please! P-please don't leave me!"

Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. They couldn't hear her. Those terrible boys were already far gone. The people inside continued laughing and chatting like it was Christmas Eve dinner. She was practically invisible. A ghost, a whisper, hidden by the chaos in a back alley, by the thunderings of the outside. Charlie was alone. She'd tried to do a good thing and now she was alone. And what about Chris? Had Michael truly taken him home? How could she be sure?

She couldn't say how long she was outside or if she ever managed to stop crying. It was impossible to tell. There was so much rain - _too_ much rain. Infinite repeats of crackling lightning and roaring thunder - would the sky itself tear apart? And so cold… the water was _so_ cold. Charlie felt as if she'd just dived into a lake, as if frost was growing on her bones. She hated it so much... so was this a feeling she was just imagining?

"Please…" she whimpered out miserably. "Pl-"

Charlie felt her voice catch itself, as another sensation crept upon her, yet something actually welcoming; light - but a new light. One from behind. The wet as water child hesitated for a moment, before eventually glancing back at the source of the new light. They were two glowing beams like those of a large animal's. For a split second, Charlie's child mind thought that was the case - until it came closer, and its true form became apparent - a car.

But not just any car. Even through the dark and rain, Charlie could make out that it was a plum-colored _purple_ car. And there was only one person she knew who owned a _purple car._

"W… William?" she muttered mostly to herself. He… he was here? But… why? What were the chances? Had this truly been a mere coincidence? Surely it had to be... So was he on his way here already, simply deciding to take the back inside? Or had he seen her here and decided to help?

 _At night, in the rain of a back alley?_ She asked herself skeptically/

But still, if there was something Charlie could find herself believing in, was miracles. And miracles of mercy didn't always have to make sense. Why exactly couldn't this be one sent for her? Her father's best friend… here! While she was stuck in the freezing rain.

The headlights shut off, the driver's door opened - considerably slowly - and out came a… a _familiar_ shadow.

It _was_ him. She could tell. Even in this darkness.

In the next moment, Charlie felt her soggy sneaker take a step forward with a _squish._ Then another. And another. And before she knew it, Charlie was running. Puddles splashed underneath her feet with each step. But it didn't bother her. A friend. A friend was here! To take her home to warmth, her home, her father. And best of all, she could ask if Chris was alright! She could-

Her foot caught on something. A rock, a piece of garbage, she didn't know. But what she did know, was that in the next moment, her head was rocketing down straight towards the concrete.

But she didn't hit it. Because something caught her. Two hands, three times as large as hers. She looked up. She couldn't exactly make out most of his features, but it was him alright.

William Afton.

"Oh Will!" she sobbed into his already drenched white sleeve. "I-I-I'm so… I th-thought I'd…" her words weren't making sense. Too much was running like the hot lighting in her mind. She could comprehend hardly any of it. "P-please… h-home… with D-Dad… Chris…" her heart skipped a beat. "Chris! I-is… is he al-"

Charlie choked on her words.

She suddenly felt like vomiting again.

A putrid aroma hit Charlotte's nostrils, almost burning up the hairs like acid. It was that of a dead animal, mixed with the stink of cheap beer. The smell of drunkenness and death. It was horrible. Disgusting. But not in just the smell, but the knowledge of the deeds someone who smelled like this had been doing.

But no… this horridness… this filth… it… it _couldn't_ … surely it couldn't be coming from-

She felt a rough, but wet hand rub her cheek.

"Charlotte…" a whisper. Soft, yet she could hear it. Like a phantom who'd just recognized it was her that was there, and whose voice was in every drop of rain itself. But the emotion behind it was undecipherable.

But he seemed to be looking down at her. _Studying_ her.

_Pitter-patter, pitter-patter._

"Will… William, I'd-"

"Chris... he's so fond of you…"

_Pitter patter, pat pat pat._

"He... _loves_ you…" Sincere confusion was mixed into the chilling tone

Charlie blinked, unsure of whether she was hearing this right, or maybe that everything which had happened this evening was just a dream. This out-of-nowhere and bewildering tangent that was occurring during this deadly symphony of booms and whip-cracks as what felt like tiny stones flooded down on the two. And he was still caressing her cheek...

_Pit pat pit pat, patter patter pit pat._

" _ **Why?"**_ his voice suddenly shifted like the weather around them. Cold and angry.

"P...please… I'm cold…" Charlie could feel her breathing start to pick up, confusion, and fear growing in her mind. But no… no, this was William, her father's best friend… he'd never-

" _Answer me."_ He… he almost sounded _desperate._ The grip on her shoulder tightened. " _Why_ _ **you? You**_ _and not_ _ **me? What do you have? What did she have that I don't? What does Henry have that I don't?"**_

The rancid stench somehow seemed to be growing worse, making the Emily feel as though she was about to suffocate. Intoxicatingly freezing rain dribbled down her face, along with her tears of fear.

What happened next was fast.

Flight took over. He wasn't going to listen. Charlie tried to run past the man - slip away from his grip - but even the slick wetness wasn't enough, because he held on _firm,_ but also pressed his weight down on her, practically crushing the small child to the ground.

In another split second, Charlie's free limbs grew a mind of their own. It was as if she was a lion. She roared at him. Screamed and thrashed. Begging for him to stop. He was hurting her. Stop. Please stop squeezing. What? What had she done wrong? Why did she deserve this? Was it a punishment for her selfishness?

" _ **Stop. Fighting… me!"**_

Something rough and callous - like granite - encased themselves around the girl's skin just below her chin, cutting off her one way to air.

Charlie tried to scream louder, but couldn't. Her voice had died.

And now so was she.

The Emily could no longer feel her arms or her legs. Everything was going numb, and it was starting to look as if she was peering through a tunnel that was growing longer and longer, out of her reach.

Still, someway somehow, she fought with what little strength her oxygen-deprived body had left for a gasp of air, clawing at the man's hands. But they were chains of diamonds that only squeezed tighter the more she squirmed

William appeared to be saying more, but it was all fuzz in the girl's ears. Even the rain was now drowned out. That rotten smell gone. All she was aware of now was _pain._ Bloated, divisive agony creeping up from the very tip of her pinky toes, to her drained limbs, to the silent lips that could no longer call for help.

She wasn't sure when, but she stopped fighting. Her body no longer worked, and the only sense that was still present was the small blotches of sight. Almost nothing was left in her. Yes, Charlie had done what he asked. She'd stopped fighting.

But he still didn't stop squeezing.

Then as if just maybe the universe really did have pity for the girl, a bright flash of white from the sky struck down, almost right beside the man. He didn't flinch, but for a fraction of time, everything seemed to stand still, and every part of his wet face was gleaming as clear as day against the white light.

But Charlie could only notice one feature.

His eyes.

Empty.

Hollow.

Merciless.

The word she'd never given anything. That she'd always hoped never truly existed on Earth.

Evil.

As her thoughts started to fade, she could only recall the last one she had.

Charlotte was sorry that she never got to make sure Chris was ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, hi, so I slightly updated the page with one word, since there was a misconception that was entirely my fault because of how I phrased it. If you didn't catch and are still confused, William was talking about how Chris has grown close to Charlie, not Henry. Again, again, 100% my fault because I ended up being too vague. I'll try not to let that happen again.
> 
> PS  
> Thank you all so much for your support and patience. And especially to those who've left comments! I hope I can continue to meet your expectations whenever the next chapters come out. Stay safe!


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**In Bounds**

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**In Bounds**

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**In Bounds**

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**_Borderline_ **

**RETRIEVING**

**RETRIEVING**

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**Bracelet Code: 0100011101110010011001010110010101101110**

_** OUT OF BOUNDS ** _

_** OUT OF BOUNDS ** _

_** OUT OF BOUNDS ** _

_**EMERGENCY MODE: ON** _

**Bracelet Code: 0100111101110010 0110000101101110 0110011101100101**

**Bracelet Code: 01010000011010010110111001101011**

**Bracelet Code: 01000010011011000111010101100101**

**Cleared From Data**

**Bracelet Code: 0100011101110010011001010110010101101110**

** _ OUT OF BOUNDS _ **

**_RETRIEVING_ **

**_  
  
ERROR_ **

**_  
  
INTERFERENCE  
  
  
_ **

**_CLEARING INTERFERENCE_ **

**_CLEARING INTERFERENCE_ **

**_CLEARING INTERFERENCE_ **

**_CLEARING INTERFERENCE_ **

**INTERFERENCE: CLEARED**

_**RETRIEVI**_ _**NG** _

_**RETRIEVING** _

_**ERROR** _

_**ERROR** _

_**ELEMENTAL OPPOSITION** _

_**CONTINUE FORWARD** _

_**RETRIEVING** _

_**ReTRIeVING** _

_**rET ~~riE̶̫̤̰̩͒̂͆v̸̭̝̞̂̏͜Ĭ̷̲̠͙̩̐͊~~ ~~Ng~~** _

**R̷̢̼̜͈͉͎̻͓͊̌̉̎̏ Ę̸̧̧̢̦̬̹̤͕̹̞̬̮̪͉̀͒̃͛̎̓͗̽̊̊̀͒̔̔̐t̷̮͇͂͌̈́̈́͆̆͘͘͝Ŗ̵̛͍͓̫͔̦̙̻̞̠̮̭͋̈́̉̽͗̓͋́̉V̷̤̳͆͛͋̎͐̂̈́͒̿̿͒͗̈́v̸̬̘͉̤̼̳̣͙̬͈͇̆̈͋͒̒̆́̆͌̇̈́͒̒̈̐̍͝-̶̧̣̘͚̝̗̰̪͆̀́͊̂̉V̷̧̰̬̠͚̩̊̐̏̇͛̓̓͠͝-̵̗̟͍̝͙̙̞̘͔̭̦̤̻̓̒̑͝͠͝v̶̙̱̱̟̞̜̩̪͂̑̀͊͋̽̄̓̆͌̿̍̕͘͘ͅ-V- _i-i- N̷̤̿͐̔͠͝N̷̨͎̺͔̹͖͍̦̣͕͔͚̽͋̾̏̅͒̈͋̈́͘n̶̡̤͎̙̫̮̙̬̏͌̊͊̆̀ͅn̷͎̲̠͍̮̬̐̾̅͛͛̐͘͝͠-̸̟̬͉͛̐̾̒ḡ̸̨̛̖̺̺̓̃͐̿̉̎̊͘-̶̧̭͗͑͆̾̏̕͝͠G̴̠̜̠̹̰̪̓_** **~~G~~ ** ~~g _gg_~~

P̵̨͎͖͕̩͖̆̅͒̓̌͂̾̈́́̐̔͆̏͛͋̿̊͂̅͋͗͗̐̂̌̑̌̍́̋̕͝͠͝r̷̫̞̠̼̯̬̭͔̗̞̘͚̣͈̥͆͊̏̏̀͋̐̐̽̓̓̿́̆̓͐̂̋͌̚̚͜͠͠͝Ơ̶̛̛͈̜̯̙̯͆̾͛͆̇́̊͒͛̀̎͗̈̈́̌̏͐͊̽͒͛̊̚͝S̶̡̢̢͙͈̹̳̮̱̦̮͍͍͙͖̼̺̪̰̜̝̗͔̰̜̳̤̰̬̲̀͂̒̈̉̂̋̊̂̅̏̅̅͐́̇̈́͐͛͗͗̂̌̋͘̚͘̚͘̚̕ͅͅ≠̧̢̨̞̼̰̟̥̬̣̰̥͉͔̮̻̮͉͇̠̦̲͚̊͆̓̀͛̿̎́̓̓̓̓̔͐̓̄̒̾͛͘̚̕͝͠s̵̭̫͉̤̩̘̣͓͓̦̖͕͉̞̘̻͙̓̏̒͋͆̂̃̄̒̍̈́͛̓̾͒͑͌͘̚͜͜͝͝͠͠-̸̡̢̛̲̼͉͎͓̭̥͔̬͔͖̗͓̣̰̪̀̔̔͂̔̏̈́͗̏͗̈́̑̐̑̏̓̃̌̋̌̐̽͊̂͛͆͗͒̚͜͝͝ͅͅs̵̢̢̢̢̧͙̳̳̩̥̥̬̪̮̞͇̭͓̱͓̞͎͖̳͈̰̫̞̠͙̹̬̲̈́͑̀̾̇̈̇̕̚̚͜ͅ-̴̨̩̞͔̭̻̘͓̱̪͍͓̻̀̐̀͆̇͗͠ͅs̸̡̡̢̗͚̭̼̱̱̙̘̘͈͕͍̩͈͚͇̠̞̞͎͎͇͙͌̔̑̆̄̐̎͑̃̉̓̓̏̇̎͛̊̒͘͝͠ͅ-̵̨̡̧̧̖̣͔̺͈̹͇̻̘̘̺̻̼̼̬̳̘̺̹͓͇͙̯̰̈͑ͅę̵̡̡̛͙̘͔̬̦̬͓̘̭̗̩̹̻͔̥̩̰̬̦͍͓͎̫̒͛̇͐͆̓͂̿̿̑͒͒̆̃͛̄͘͝ͅ-̶̛͎̖̩͇͐̈́̿͆̈́͐̀͗̋̌̔̋̈́̎͗̓̈́͐̐̂͂̎̈́͛̽̋̋̒͠͝͠ͅE̵̞̜̱̮̫̦̘̠͓̬̳͍̩̯͌̀̌̃̓̓̅̍̋̀̽̚͜͠Ę̴̛̛̛̛͚̘͚̼̘̫͚͕̤̠̬̟͉̩̤̥̘̺͕͑̂̎͐̏̇̅̔̂̾͋̈́̒̐͂̄͛̔̿̈́͌͛̾̾̌̈́̿̍̂͆͋̓̊͗̾͑͋͑͋̋͋̓͌̐͗̽̈́͗̃͂͒̕̕̕̚̚͝͠͠͝ĕ̷̢̢̨̛̻̼͚͔̻̻̪̙̙͉̻̱̻̳̞̦̞̣͇͚̞̠̮̫̞̯͔͓͍̺̟̂̅̉͐̐̑͆̋̈̎̓̋̆̊̃̏̂̎̒̋̄̅̊̋̓̄̽͆̂͛͆̑͗̇̂͒̃̾̇͗̽̂̒̇́͗̓̉͘͘͘͠͝ͅͅę̷̡̨̨̧̡̨̧̙̬̗͉̥͍̹̥̝̝̯̺̩̹̠̰͙̹̹͙̩̫͎̥͔͙̱͕͖̙̳̗̹͈͎̩̹̞̰̤̬̯̘͕͈̬͕̤̟̖͉̤̲̬̣̫͍̈́̂͌͆̅̆̋̉̅̑͜ȩ̴̢̢̨̧̛̦͓͙͖͎̟̭͕͔͚̲̻̜͉̼̱̼̳͇̯̳̼̻̤̰̳̇̋̈́̉̎̾̇͋͆́̇̉̏̈́̏͑̇̀̈́̔̔̈́̏̚̚̕͜͝͝͝͠͠ͅͅḙ̷̢̧̧̧̡̡̧̡̨̨̛͓͕͙̰̥̬͙̫͎͖͍̺̲͓̜͚̖̥̳̘͓̻͇̮̘͍͈͚̥̩͉̥̮̬̩̬͈̲̼͔͇̻́͋̓͗̅̇̔̎͛̎̎̿̄̂͐͛̈́̏̆͑̔̈́̅̔̌̈͗̌̊̄̾̒͆͐̐͒̒́̈́͛͋̓́̈́͛̍̾͐̄̏́̎͆̐̆̒͆͊̂͛̓̇̃̚̕͘̚͘̚͜͝͠͝͝ę̸̧̡̡̢̨̢̛̣͇̤̫̳̪̫̫̰͇̻̣͎̤̗̘̗͉̱̘̘̻̠̤̜̺̮̙̫̠̘̯̼̣͇̺̫̹̻̤͕̺̳̱͈̫̗̘̗̯͕̮͔̩̣̗͉͕̣̓̋͆̇̌͐̓̍̽̎̃͂̂͛̿̊͑̈́̏̈́̈́̂̓̄͑̄̄̈́̽̉̔̏̏̀̀̈́̒̀͛̓͌̕̕͘͜͜͜͜͜͠͠ͅͅͅȩ̷̧̡̛̯͓͙̫͕̦̗͈̥̪̠̠̬̰͕̞̻͍͕̰̱͔̤̳̹̥̞̹͕̔͊͒̒̄͛̆̽̃̏̋̀̈́̍͑̊͗̽͊̔̽̍̒̔̇̌̄̐͆̿̋͂̽̓̀͊͂̆̄̿̊̾̓͑̓̓̂̈́͐̑̆͋͗̉̕̕̚͘͘̚͜͝͝͠͠͠͠͠-̴̡̢̛̤͇͕͉̜̟͔̝̦̥͔̰͖͚͍͙͚̯̤̺̘̞̈̅͛̈́̋̆͌͊̕͝ͅS̶̢̡̛̺̜̦̞̙̝̙̗͈̫͉͈̩͕̝͓̣̗͈̎́͋͋̽̓͋̃̏͋̇͐̾̋͌͋̈́̕͘̕͠͠͝-̷̡̢̠̦͓̯̣͉̮̤͔͉̍̽̋́̆͆̾͂͗̾̂̋̽̇̏̑̑̈́̓͂̎̉͊͐͘̕͘͘͝ï̶̡̘͓̤͔̹͚̳̬̳̞͚̖͓͔̙̙̦̪͔̲̲͚̟̝͔̗͚̯ͅi̵̧̧̨͍͙͍̣̪̣̖̬̹̭̱̣͕͙̭̺͔͕̘̒̍͠i̴̛͇͔͈̳͉̲̠̻̍͋̑͗̅̎̄̇̓̾̈̑̔̒̌̅͆͛̓͆͗̈́͗̽̊̓̈̊͂͜͜î̵̡̧̘̞̰̣̺͚͚̻͋͊̎͒̒͑̎̆͐̀̐͐̈̐̓̅̿̎̊̿̌̍̌̈́̐̒̿̕͝=̵̤̰̘̓̃̉̄͒̑̆̈́̒ͅN̴̨̛̻̻͙͇̬̱̠̓̈́̾̄̓͆̑̾̐͋́̆̅̽̌̐̇͆̋́̉͊͛̌̿̆̕͝͝+̸̡̛̥͕͉̦̘̲̞̰͚̪̖͈̳͕͚͈̬̞̩̬͕̯̬͎̟̝̰̩̇̏̅͒͐͊͗͑̾̽͊̇̈́͊͒̒̿͋̈́͂̈͂̌̚̕̚̕͘͘͝͠͝N̶̡̡̧̛̲͎̱̻̟̯̦̯̞͇̟̖̤̭̠̞̲͉̹̠̅̂̿͛̐̐̾͐͐͗̓̾̉͗̃̐́̓̌̐̈́͊͋̅͗̃͗̊͆͘̕͝͝͝͠=̷͙͇̭͇̥͔̘̰̾͊̅̃̄͐͜͠ͅn̴̡̡̨̙̰̬͓̯͖̾̍͋̐ͅ=̷̢̢͚̘̬̤̙͕̠̞̝̘̭͓̩͓̖̟̘͖͕̬̠͙̫̮̘̦̗͊͐͘͜͜Ġ̵̡̢̧̡̢̡̛̼̟̗̹̹̜̜̫͍̯͇͎̦̠͚͖̥͓͕̪̦̣̟͐̏̋̈́̇͗̇̽͒͐̈̇̎͂͌̍̿̈́͐̎̔͊̈́̚̚͜͠͝ͅg̵̢̧̨̦̰̪͓̖̺͓͕͈͖̣̙̞̫͚͔̥̦̊̄̀͝ͅǦ̶̨̯͛̒̓͆͌͛̃̔͊̈́̚̚

m̸̢̢̝͉̬̫̣̦̖̺̰̘̰̓͜͝y̵̨̝̣͙͍̙͙̥͓̬̪̞̦͕̮̮̟̭̹͚̰͍̟͗̍̃̌̏̇͛̓́̕̚͜͠ͅͅͅ ̵̢̨̨̛̛̖̹̮͍̳̦̲̹̱̫̻͍̣͙̼͙̥̩̮̫̙͔̣̻̱̙̼̤͙̝͖̮͙́̓̓̎̇̀̽̏̏͐̊̈́̓̍̓͑̽̂̒͗̍͒̀̂̎̎̚͜͜͜͠͝ṁ̷̧̢̨̞̬̭̞̣̤̣̞̥̼̟̻̦̹͖͙͎͈̯̻͙̫̮̗̦͈̬͙̩͒͒̇́̄͌̑͋͋̉̒́͗̽̓͊̔̑̈̿̒̏͘̚͘ͅý̵̢̨̞̳̜̣͓̭̟̼̮̹̰̥̗͙̟͎̳͔͓̳̼̱͙̩͓̜̭̻̠̖̱̱̙̱̗̝̆͋̽͋͊͋̽̿͊̅̈͛̓̿̆̎̒̑̓͐̆̽̏͊̇̒̈́̋̂̽͊͆͊̉̕̕̚̚͘̕͜͝ ̸̧̡̢̡̛͈͈͍̮͓̱̬̤͉̖͕̭̘̱̜̫̦̫̝͇͈̹͉̯̻̤̿͋͌̂͗̃̍̐̔́̃͒̊̈́̎̈́̓͒͐̒̌̑̒̾̇̔̓̑̓̃̽̌̅̓̔̉̕͘͘͝͠ş̷̡̢̡̛̝͇̙͉̺̖͇͚͖̙̱̦̥̭͓̤̩̦̞̘̺̗̖͍͇̬̮̠̙̦͋̀̇̍̉̐̐̈́̐͆̓̿̓̇̅͑̀͆̅̿̎̽͑̎́̿̑͗́͐̍̿͘̕͜͠͝͝͝ķ̵̨̛͓͔̩̪̪̯̗͚͍͎̝͕͎̬̤̮̩̟̫̪̖͔̱̪̠͎̦̆͒̋̋̈̅́̓̈́͒̃̑͂̽̍̋͛́̊̓̆̎̐͒́͛͌̆̒̒̉̅̿͑͋͘͘͜͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅf̸̨̧̢̧̡̘͇̙̯̲͙̹̹͍̦̫̳̫͖͔͍̝̘̙̠̤͙͚̹͓̦͙̜͕̼̞̣̭̯̮̗͐̇̾͛͗͂̓̎̿̅̊͜͝͝j̷̨̨̲̖̲̠͇̖̬̜͍̩̘͇̪̼̻̺̫͓̲̣̲̃̽͆̂͑̀̉̔̀̑̓͛̊͊̍̓̉̓̓̅̑̇̋̇̎́̃̒̊̓͌̒̚͜͝͠͝ͅḑ̵̲̺̺̼́͊̎̈́̓̚͜s̴̛̛͙̐͋̈́̈́̀̈́͂̌͑̒̉̆̾̇̓͗̅̽̈́͂̃͛͂̌͛̍̓̒͒̎̂̽̓̏̈́̕̕͠͝͝͠͝k̸̨̪̝͈̠͓̮͔͙͓͚͚͎̻̘͓͇̩̻̭̮̥̣͓̮̖̲̜͈̖̞̫̞̮̰͖̜̦̲͓̞̹̻̈́̅̓͂͗̃̂̾́̆̿̈́̌͂́̅̿̓̊̔̎̽̓͂̈́̽̄̈̽̑͘̚̚͝ļ̶̛̬̣̳̪̯͇̟̫̯͕͈͍̱̝͚͙̲̫̙̻̻̈́̓̈́͑̓͆̌̆̂̍͐̇̈́̊̃͑̊̃͗͋̓̏͆̉̌̂͌̊̂̕̕̚̕͠͝j̴̨̡̧̛͉̹͈͚̥̦̲̜̫̟̲͔̫̳̱͕̭̱̝̜͕̬͕͔̩͓̳͍͓̹̱̙͉̗̗̰͈͉͇̓̏͗̑̅̃̀̇͐̓̌͌̍͆̆̅͋͑̍͐̎̏͆͆̂̆͗̏̃̈̆̚̕̕̚͜͜͠ͅf̶̨̢̛̖̙̘̝͇̙̙̥̞͖͙̘͇̙̯͎͕̈́̽̍̅̒͌̈̍̔̈͌̄̔͐̆̂̄͐͐͛̕͘͝͝ͅͅ ̷̨̡̧̢̩̠͇̙̭͖͖͔͈̱͔̰̞̖͔̯̝̀͆̅͌̿̐̉̒̓̽͑̔͛̑̋̂̈̑̉͛̅̈́̕̚͘͜͝͝l̸̨̨̧̨̧̨̢̛̛̟̗̯̠̪͙̖̣̹͙̫̞͍̻̯̗̜̬̩̱͙͚͙̻̝̼̞̠̰͖̟͔̪̜̃̋̄̄̎͛̈́̀̄̑͘̚̕͠͠͠ͅͅͅ,̵̧̛͙͇̗͚̞̭̮̪̪͔͈̩͉͍̜͇͍̘̘͒̉̿͌͌͐̄̉̈́̊͗͌̓͋̄̽̄̀͋̓͐̓̿̊̄̂̓̂̈́̈́͘͜͝ͅ,̵̨̧̢̡̢̠̙̲͇̻͇͙̺̯̹̙̻̮̘̤̣̜͖̜̻̦̺͇͉̦̜̭̖̺̦̿͐̋̑̓̀̿̾̒͆̿̇̄͐̃̋̔̒͐̚̚͜͜͠͠͠͝,̸̨̧̛̮͙̰̪̫̤̰͖̹̩̲̪̬̜͕̯͇̖͎̫͈̲̼̞̗̮̣͖̥̤̘̯̜̩̯̖̎̔̃̎́͆̊̌̅̆̿̋͒̏̓͌͝͠ͅ,̸̨̡̢̧̪̯̝͕̦͕̦͎̩̳̮͔͙͈̺̲̬̖̠̝͚̥̼͙͕͍̦͇̜̀̽̎̓̈́̊͒̅̃́͘̕͝͠d̷̞̦̜̲̽̋̓̔̌̈́̆͂̈́͗̐̓͛̐̒͠ļ̸̧̧̧̡̧̡̧̛̩̙̲̘͍̳̗̖͕͈̼̫͖͇̯̰̮͕̦̼͙̞̫͇̝͛̐̿̓̋̽͐͑̿͒͗̃̅̀̾̑͌̐͆̓̾͘͠f̷͚̫̝̬̗͕͉͔̻̎̂͌͋͊̒̆̐̈̽̄̉̄̇̊̒͑̒̂̕͠͝k̶̗̠̣̘̣͈̩̰͙̆͂̄͋̀́͗̐̑͗̐̐̈́̒͂̕j̶̨̡͎̞̠̬̖̠̥̞̻͓̯̬̗͕͕̤̮̖̥̮͈͈̘̈͛̿̍̇̎͑̇̍͋̾͊̔̒̈́̌̽̏̐͗̋̓̎̎̕̚͘̚͜d̶̢̡̡̻͈͚̰̦̮̭̟͕̠̹̩̝͚̤͇̖̺̳͔̳̪̠̭̝̞̼͖̠͇̬̹̤̻̭̣̞͔̦͗̐̈́̊̉̌͂̈́̌̏̓̒͊͂͂̅͂̐̃͐͛́̾͝s̶̡̪̥͕̥͍̍̊͌̑̆͒͊̾̂̕̚͘͜͝ ̶̧̡̛̩͔̤̺̩͕̟̱̞̠̠̟̞͓̭̮͍͕̗̱̘̝͕̠̭̲̥͚͚̠̖̥̮̠͙̭̤̈́̑͜͜l̸̛̜͚͓͔̋̊͋̽̒̅̓̂̿͂́̅͊̏̐͛͌̋̈́̇̄̀̇̌̈́͘͘͠͝͝͝͝k̴̢̛̛̮̝͖̪͈̬̅̑̏̈́̏̍̄̀̃͑̿͛̋̓̓̾̓̅̃͆̄̑͊̓͛͛͂̍̓̀̃̾̀͘̚͠͝͝͝d̵̡̗͈͇̳̝͎̻̺̘̼̖̠̲̟̮̈͒̀̓̈́̔͛̓̑̂̏̄̈́̄̈́͂̾́̈́͋̽̂̊̈̾̔̏̓̚͜͜͠͝͠͠͠ ̴̡̳̺̼͙̳͙͔͕̣͎̩̝̲̥̙̗̭̖͇̖̙̞̹̣̞͎̥̹̮̠̭͕̑̊͑̔́̈͊̑̃̓́͠ͅ

l̷̨͈͓̱̬̮̮̯͕̖̒̐ͅs̴̮̯̙̟̏̎̿̏͌̔̊̃̎̂̄̔̌͝͝d̶̡̪̗̻̩̫̪͈̮̈́̃j̴̨͓̙͍̺͖̟̟̆̈́̓̔ͅͅf̸̛̹̬̤͎̪̖̝̘̲̯̏͗̽̀͗̌̌͛̉͝ͅļ̵̨̨̨̧̣͓̝̰̬̰͖͓̺̦͍̲͍̳͇͖̰͕̜͑͗̆͆͆̈́̈́̍̄̔͑̈́̇͒̒̇͗͘̕͜͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅa̷̢̢̯̥̫͚͙̱̭͙̣̩̘̙̮͓̪͓̩̞͗̐͊́̌̇͌̊̃̀̂̊̋͆͋̈͑͑̽̔̈̀̌̒͌͊̒̀̿̄̓͗̕͝͝ş̸̢̡͍͈̖̜̹̻̞͓̝̞͙̳̮̙̞̰̲̼̩̮̬̝̬̱̳̼̫̏̈͗̓̕͜͜k̴̢͈̣̙̬͔̼̔̓̀͐̃͆̅͐̌͗̂͜͠͝͠d̸̟͖͍͖̹͚̺̺͔͉͍̣͓͈̮͂͂̓́̄̿͂͂̅̽̽̂͆̓̎̽̇̊̚͝͠j̸̢̧̨̣̗̟̱̞̮̬͍͎̣͎̜̯͙̹̅̈́̊̅̃̈͗̈́̑́̃̏̀̈́͋͑̅̀̓́̐͊͌̈́̂̀̈́͘̕̕͝͝f̷̡̮̖̦̝̀͋͆̂̊͒̈́͛͛͑̎̈̅͆̇̂̎̌̅͒͐̑̊͑́̃̽͐̕͝͝͝0̸̘̪͓̮̮̪͖̟̲̟̞̯͉̯̘̬̥̈̍͌̂̇͐̓͊̂͛̓͋̔͆̿̾̕̚͠ͅs̴̨̥̪͇̬͉͙͔̅̒͌̈́̔͒̃̏̈́͛̽͑̃̏̓̐̿̎̈́̀̒̋̒̿͆̾̕̕̚͝͝ơ̴̡̛̹̙̮̙̣̖͖͕͓̹̹̯͚̩̠̖͍̮̫͙̮̠͖̲̰̳̙͈̙̫̤͕̮͐͆͊̾̿̅͛̏̽̎̏̔͝d̸̛͓̲̲̩̱̰̫͍̪͖͑́͊͒͆̾̽͊̇̄̃̓͊̎̈́͊͗̾̌͛̅̅̿͂̕̕͜͝f̶̡̢̡̨̢̛̛͇͎̟͔̹̘̝̣͙̥̟͓̙̮̼̹̞̩̝͎̯͔̪͙͌̈͂̒̽͗̈́̿͑̍̂͐͆̽͑̈͒͂͐̑̑̐̑͂̇̅͒̐̿̉̐͘̕͠ͅ ̷̧̛̜̪͔͙͎̺͕͎̺̪̱͕̩͙̦̦͍̯͑̊̈́͜j̵̰̝̞̭̹̼̠͈̭̳̙̯̮̹̞̫͑̌͛̓̓͋̍̍́̈́̄̀͆̈̔̍̚̚̚̕͘͠͝ll̷̨͈͓̱̬̮̮̯͕̖̒̐ͅs̴̮̯̙̟̏̎̿̏͌̔̊̃̎̂̄̔̌͝͝d̶̡̪̗̻̩̫̪͈̮̈́̃j̴̨͓̙͍̺͖̟̟̆̈́̓̔ͅͅf̸̛̹̬̤͎̪̖̝̘̲̯̏͗̽̀͗̌̌͛̉͝ͅ

0̸͈̯̣͔̼̝̟̖̘̅͑̓̆͆̑͘9̸̧͓̫͔̗͋̈́̚̚3̸̭͔̙͋̿̄̿͐̔̐̑̓̚4̶̙͕͕͖̬͎̘͍̖̏͋͜ͅf̸̡̡͕͕̘̺̲̮͇̂̂̋͂̏̍͋͘̕̚s̸͚̫͎͙̮̙̪̘̤̬͎̉̒̀͗͊͑͜͝ͅ

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**_ B̴̢̢̢̤͇̱͔͚̫̳̩͓̹͎̖̯̦̼͎̂͌͌̏͛̉͂̃͛̄̿͊̎̕̕͜͜͝͝͠ͅ-̶̧̨̡̧̬͇͍͉̟͍͉͍̭͙̠͔͉͖̞̞͖̤̈́̊̋̈́͂̒͘͜b̶̟̳̰̮͔̝̼̍̌͛̂̈̄̿͗̀̄̃̽̓̃͑̄̚̚͠͝-̴̧̨̢̬̯̞̣̯̭̭͈̰̻̯̮̦̳͇̠̤̼̺̞͚̥̙̰̑̎͑r̸̗̘̟͈̼̣̮̭̞̠̳͉͈͂̇̄̊̚a̶̡̩̼͔͚͙̫̼̫̹͖͇̗̘̺̝͇͎͕̩̭̣͍̓̃͜͠ͅc̶̡̡̧̡͕̞̥̹͔͔̱͚̤̟̙̼̫͖̭͍͎͒͑̍͂͛͆͆̃̾̈́̈͗͊͌̌͝͝ͅe̸̡̧̛̝̗̰̭͔͖̺̬̤͛̋̑̌͐͐̋̓͐͐̕͜͜ļ̶̨̗͚̼̞͔͍͇͍̞̯̙͂̀̃̔͊̓͒̈́̓̌̈́͌̆̄-̸͖̖̱̖͎̈̇̉̒̒̓̐͆̈́͑͆̎̀̄̔̇͒͝͠ḷ̵̢̡̡̝̯̜͉̖̙̙̟̺̬͎͉̦̝͎̳̬̮̊̎̈́̓͗͋̆̐̂̽͐̓͋̊͌̇̽̾̓̄͛̔̃͝-̸̛͈̩̣̯͖̳̪͙̙͈̞̪͓̜͍̣̼̼̭̩͎͎̞̘̖̻̳̂̈̓̒͒͆̓̄̑͋̀͌̂̎̆̾̈́̐̋͆͘̕͜͝L̶̢̗̦̝͓͈̙͇͓̑͌̐̇̈͂͜͠͠-̷̧̜̘͈̼̯͙͔͐̎͛͊̅̅̔̑̾̏̈́͌͌̒̂̽̐͛̆́́̓̂̕͘̚͠e̸̡̨͓̱̳̣̺̣͈̮̤̞͙͙̩̗̭̹͔͉̤̥̺̲̪̓̈́̍̉̃͗͆ͅË̸̛͖̦́̿͋̈́̒̽͆̇͂̈́̊͌̈́̋̓́̇́͘̕̕͘͝͠e̸̛̝̺̰̳̫̮̎̿̍̓̎̊͒̂̂͒̒̽̓̈͊̉̊̑̒̕̚ṫ̵̪̳̎ţ̸̧̭̤̟̤̰̭̠̫͓̟̗̙̞̥̖̣̪̤̙̪͓̻̯̮̺̼͍̊͌́͗͐̅͜͜͝ ̸̰̗̱̱̝̈́͌̓̌͝͝ç̵͔̘͕̗̩̖̖͙͔̪̻͚͚͕͖͐̑̔͂͂͆͂͒̆̋̈̿͜͠͝ͅͅ0̷̨̧̡̛̩͔̠̳̗̹̠̗̺͚͙̘̭̪̖̺͍̭͕͑̄͆͊̃̈́̽͐̒́̋̎͆̃̃͒̓̾̍͂̉̋̕͘͜͜͝͝ͅ0̶͖̠̖̯̺͊̐̒̉̌̏̐̌̔̐̄̍̓̋̂̎͑͗͐̇̕͘D̷͍̝̼͎̼͈̺͖̭͖̦͎͔̭̭̔̿͊̏̃͋͆̽̾̓͌ͅͅȩ̵̧̖͍̪̠͎̹̟͍̟͓̹̗̾:̶̢̧̛̤̮̩͓̯͙͚͉͈̻̟̙̭͐̀́̾͋̆̚ _ **

**_ 0̶̲̠͒͜1̸̢̫̞̮̜͓̮̓̔̈́0̶̜̯̜͙̇̏͛̈́̄0̵̨͕͖͓̪͚̤̙̋̽̏́0̶̧́̔̌̚͝1̷̧͓̥͐̃͒̾̐̂̏1̴̧̜̙̞͗̔͜1̸̯̞̩̘̼̦͍̙̾͐0̸̤̉̾͐̓̒̕̚͠0̶̡͎̦̦̮͔̟̠͚̘͙͉͇̆̃͊͐̀͝1̴̢͉̻̱̙̬̅͋̅͐͂̐̓͑͜͠1̶̤̊͌̑͒̇̈́͛͛́̍1̸̺̳̹̟̖͈̊̿͌̈̿̂̇̈́͘͘͝͝0̴͈̤͎͆0̴̢̜͔͓̗͔̋͝1̶̡̨͖̬͈͛̆̅̌̈̾̓͆͘͝͠ͅ0̷̩̦͇͈͍͎͇̲̱͍͖̬̝̂̑̃͌̅̓͒̍̂͘̚͝0̴̨̨͇̜͂̈́̈́͋͛̄̍̈͗͑̚1̴̙̅̊̈̈̊͋̓͊̐́͠͝1̷̻̐̉0̷̢̣̮͎͎̫͙̩̬̳̗̇ͅ0̶̡͔͈̗̪̼̓̏͛̄̋͊̽͒͝1̴̢̡̭͉̯͔̬͔̈́̌̓̉̊0̸̪͔̃̉̔̆̈́1̷̨͓̟̭̭͇̲̮̻̪̌̿̔̓̀̈́̚͜͝ͅ0̷̨̛͖͓̗̟̻̞͇̔̋̔͒͛̀̈́͌̂̕͝ͅ1̶̢̽̿̓̿͒͆̕1̸̢̧̼̺͔̖͈͖̌́̽ͅ0̵̠̯͉͍̇͆͂͋0̶̧̘̗̲̑͒1̶̛͙̖͓̖̭̦̜́̓͒0̷͙͓͆̉̉̓̿̐̿̚̕1̶͍̯̲̗͌̃̆̾̽̕0̸̛̲̪1̴̢̣̖͝1̶̧̫͚͉̈͆͐0̶̡̟͎̦̊͑͝͝1̵̖͎͕͒͠1̵͍͓̮͓̾̍̃1̴͕̭̺͇̩̂̆̂͠0̵̝̤̫̼̟̈ _ **

**_..... _ **

** r̶̭̰̟̺̱͕̰̆e̶̲͇̪̙̱̣͙̋́͋̽̎̐̅̐̿͐̋͘͠ṯ̴̀̑̄͆̈̌̓r̴̛͚̠͂̆̾̚͝i̶̭̯͈̰͉̾̆͛̿̃̌̊̕͝͝͠͝ể̸̡̛͕̤̬̻͙̆̈̆̍̀̇̓͝ͅv̶̛̺̺̬͓͚̳̬̜̦͙̯̤̝͌͊̈̍͂͋̽̂͘͝e̴͚̞̠̋̊̎͒̍̅̎͛̇̎̌d̵̟̞̹̓̕͜ **


	23. Off to that Place Again

_A young woman, hair as orange as flickering flames sat in the master bedroom of their new house in America, waiting for her husband to arrive home._

_Michael was at preschool… hopefully not getting into any more trouble, while baby Elizabeth was in her room, fast asleep. She was grateful for that. Neither deserved to hear the arguing that could potentially ensue…_

_She took in a deep breath._ _**Don't say that, Amelia.** _ _While yes, words could not describe how upset she was, Amelia was determined to deal with this as calmly as her temper would allow._

_Then, as if right on cue, the door opened, and in came her tall, dark-haired husband, wearing his worn-out lighter grey suit._

" _Hello dear," he greeted casually while looking down at sheets of paper he was holding._

_Amelia felt her fingers tighten together._

" _William, we need to talk."_

_The man in question stiffened. Whether out of shock, or if he'd somehow suspected this, she wasn't sure. He then looked up, dark but icy blue eyes meeting her emerald. But like whenever difficult things came up, he put up the nearly unbreakable stone mask that made it impossible to tell what he was thinking._

_Amelia kept her head up and eyes focused in order to prove to him how serious she was. William seemed to get the memo since the English man sighed before setting down his papers on the small table drawer by their bed, then sat down next to his wife, chilling eyes staring at her expectantly._

_**No need to be scared,** _ _she thought, attempting to convince herself._

_Amelia sat up straighter, took a quiet but deep breath, then-_

" _Is it true that two employees died in those suits?"_

_It suddenly felt as though the empty air between had frozen him in time._

_The silence and the way his eyes burned into her skull told the ginger all she needed to know._

" _So it's true?"_

_William's seemed to snap out of it, his dark eyebrows creasing together in suspicion. "Who told you this?"_

_**Grace walking in on something messy when she just wanted to surprise Henry,** _ _she first thought. But Amelia wasn't about to throw Henry's wife under the bus after what she'd admitted to the English women when Amelia's friend requested her **not** to tell anyone, even with Grace's months of stress and guilt._

" _No one really. It's just..." she tried her best to sound innocent but still sure, making a point to not break eye contact. "I was wondering because I_ _know two men went missing for awhile… and that the suits need…_ _ **repairs**_ _now... rumors have been spreading." she settled for slightly lying._

_Then, like a piper trying to put a snake in a trance, William's lips formed upwards into a thin line that resembled a crack against ice. His form of a charming smile that'd always charmed her in the past._

_A fringe of unease tingled down her spine._

_He then took his wife's hand tenderly, and spoke in a gentle, sincere voice-_

" _I'm very sorry you had to hear that, dear. Truly, it's an awful rumor to spread. I'll see to it that nobody ever hears of it."_

_Then he did something she didn't expect._

_He clenched her hand. Squeezed it. At first like an intense reminder of love like she'd seen other couples do._

_But then the fingers around her grew tighter, and pain entered her bones._

" _William…" she breathed out in shock, unable to pull her small hand away. "That hurts…"_

_His icicle crack of a smile didn't break, nor his grip, as if she hadn't said anything. Instead, those eyes of sharp sapphire continued to burn into the woman's skull. Amelia wanted to say something, but her tongue suddenly felt swollen and her lips refused to open._

" _Amelia…" he whispered, "if rumors like this spread then it could lead to something_ _ **very bad**_ _in the future... For my business." he clarified after a pause. William tilted his head, looking at his wife almost pleadingly. "You don't want us to become broke again - especially when Henry and I are just getting off the ground… and with two children and one on the way - do you?"_

_Amelia blinked at the words, still a bit momentarily stunned from the sudden pain._

_But she soon felt her free hand linger down to her rounding stomach._

_No. No no no. She knew what he was doing._

_But..._

_Broke. With three kids._

_Still, she was well aware of this small warning her husband was giving her with his grip continuing to tighten._

_So feeling as though there was nothing else she could do, Amelia looked him in the eye with as much intensity she could muster, then nodded._

_The pressuring pain that'd been suffocating her poor hand finally ceased, as William's cold, hard fingers released from her. A bit of soreness still lingered, but Amelia decided not to soothe it and reveal that she was in pain._

_She suddenly felt something warm and soft press against her cheek._

" _I do love you," he whispered into her ear after releasing his lips from her cheek._

_Amelia stayed still for a moment, feeling as if time had stopped while a sharp, scalding knife had been twisted into her heart. She knew. Amelia **knew** she wasn't wrong about the men dying in her husband's strange technology. Grace's genuine breakdown and her husband's sly way of attempting to keep her quite made that clear as day._

_But._

_She didn't have proof._

_At least none she was allowed to show._

_Yes, there was Grace's testimony, but the woman had begged and_ _ **begged**_ _her friend to not tell anyone because of the exact same fear William brought up. She and Henry had their own little girl at home, and once suffered the same poverty as the Afton's. And after years of trying, Amelia knew for a fact there was nothing Grace loved more than their little Charlotte._

 _But at the same time, she was keeping her mouth shut about people_ _**dying.** _ _She considered Grace to be so much more soft-hearted than herself, which is why it surprised the English woman so much that even with Charlotte, wise Grace of all people was capable of keeping this to herself. For **months.**_

_Still though, like her previous thought, Henry and Grace were just getting back on their feet as well. Amelia did consider herself a realist at the end of the day, but maybe, just maybe, there was another explanation for why the deaths had happened._

_She almost laughed out loud._

_But even if she were to try and gather her own evidence, the body's and blood were definitely long gone by now. She had zero doubt about that._

_So Amelia could stay quiet about it. For now._

_Summoning all her willpower, the woman then swallowed down every repulsive fiery-filled word she wanted to spit onto the man for refusing to be honest with his wife about accusations like this._

_Instead, Amelia used all her facial muscles to thrust out the most painfully forced smile anyone's ever done. Hardly holding it together, she quickly whispered back-_

" _I love you too."_

_And just like that, as if the words were some secret code, William's icy smile melted away into some kind of stoic satisfaction, his face returning to that of which everyone was accustomed to._

_Without saying another word, the man patted his wife's tense shoulder, as if he was **proud** that she'd said what **he** wanted. He stood up from the bed, then let out a sigh before taking off his suit's jacket and heading to their closet to hang the clothing up._

_Amelia simply sat there, feeling as if she'd dodged a bullet, only to get hit by a canon immediately after._

" _Amelia." Her husband broke her out of her stiffness. His hand clenched the doorknob, apparently ready to exit their room._

" _Yes?" she queried, voice slightly on edge, peering at William with an intense gaze, even though he hadn't turned around._

" _Put dinner in the fridge when it's ready. I'll be working downstairs late tonight - and probably for a while."_

_Amelia swallowed again._

" _Ok honey."_

" _And please, don't trouble yourself with worrying about the employees. They were hardly that - just desperate bums off the streets. The world won't miss them."_

_He opened the door and left with nothing else to say._

_Amelia stayed frozen on the bed, almost not believe what she'd just heard._

_An eternity of dead silence passed, the woman thinking of her husband's words over and over._

_Then, the ginger felt something cold and wet dribble down her cheeks. Then another. And another. And despite what she wanted, even by her lonesome, they didn't stop falling._

_With her shaky breathing and swelling eyes, Amelia again caressed her bare palm over the stomach that held the one innocent thing in this house._

_Surely, it could only get better._

* * *

Something felt bad tonight.

Of course, bad feelings were common for the pessimistic little boy. More often-than-not, Chris would say he expected something bad to happen every day.

But tonight was different. Because this bad, _bad_ feeling hadn't gone away for one second. Ever since he sat down on his floor. This bad feeling felt like a disgusting, evil little rodent digging through every part of the boy, attempting to make its home every beating organ that resided inside his small body.

And it only grew worse when he thought of the one person he couldn't get out of his head.

Charlie. Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie. She was all his paranoid fuelled mind could think about. Because she was at Fredbear's. Alone. With… with…

That huge yellow bear with a ginormous mouth, almost big enough to hold an entire child inside.

Definitely big enough for a human head, as Chris had seen…

The boy who lay curled up on the floor with his soft plushies choked back on a sob.

 _Why?_ He asked nobody for the millionth time.? Why why _why_ did Michael have to drag him home because of a lame excuse? When he'd been doing his own thing with his friends for _weeks?_ And during the one day where Charlie was _so close_ to those hungry jaws and metal teeth?

Chris's first suspicion was that his brother wanted to mess with him. "Prank" the boy as the teen so casually put it. But soon, hours passed and no one came in. He'd heard the doorbell ring, and what sounded like his tall, blond friend's voice quickly after, but nothing more.

Well, besides the desert storm outside.

It kinda made the town's name fitting.

Now, Chris had only been alive for eight long years (soon to be nine), and had indeed seen his share of storms before, but he definitely couldn't recall _ever_ witnessing something like _this._

It felt as though he was on a different planet. The only source of light outside was that of streetlamps and whips of heat who's tips would scorch the earth and shine through his window every couple of minutes. But if there wasn't that filling his eardrums, it was non-stop _pitter-patters_ smacking down onto anything which didn't have the blessing of coverage. Chirs was almost worried that if he were to step outside, his lungs would only be able to take in the water, since it seemed to now make up the air itself.

But the worst was the thunder.

The horrible, exploding _**BOOM**_ of the universe itself was what sent the boy scrambling from the comfort of his bed to shivering on the floor. With nothing but the pitiful protection his plush, animal friends granted.

Chris felt himself shrivel when every clap of thunder sounded, squeezing his eyes shut while doing everything in his power to squeeze himself into the tightest ball possible. Hoping that maybe he could bury himself out of existence.

Chris didn't know how long he lay there on the uncomfortable carpet as a pathetic ball of quivering sadness. Doing nothing but worrying about the girl he couldn't get to. He felt nothing but useless. No - he _was_ useless, never able to do anything for anyone. Not even his only real friend. And Chris never wanted to be ungrateful. To be seen as a waste of space, but he'd already failed at that a long time ago. So now, his second wish on the list was to be able to wail up to the whatever higher being who'd made him and just ask _why. Why was he like this? Why was his **life** this way? Why not like other kids? Just WHY did he have to-_

_Tap tap._

Chris froze, every previous drowning thought flying straight out the window.

For a moment, nothing sounded besides the rain.

_Tap tap._

No.

He hadn't heard _that._

_Tap tap tap._

It was just in his stupid head.

_Tap tap tap tap tap_

Maybe…

_TAP TAP TAP_

Maybe not.

During that split second, he felt something inside him change.

So the boy wasn't exactly sure why he did what he did next. He could've - probably _should've -_ just run out the door and alert Michael that some _thing_ was now aggressively tapping on his window.

But he didn't.

Instead, with the most uneven, shallow breathing he'd ever taken in his life, Chris hesitantly sat up and turned his head towards the window.

Everything that occurred next was nothing but unearthly.

Because Chris should've been scared. Terrified. Heck, knowing himself, he should have screamed bloody murder.

When he saw them. Saw the two glowing white dots peering straight at him.

But he didn't scream.

He just stared back.

And in a blink, everything he knew about himself disappeared.

Again. He should've screamed. He should've felt _scared. Terrified._ Heck, _anything._

Chris couldn't make out the intruder's body, but could somehow tell it radiated nothing but literal darkness. It felt as though shadows were covering everything he _wanted to feel_. Not even the rare bravery blossomed in his heart. The only thing the small child felt was his mind getting absorbed into a void of nothingness rather than comfort.

But he knew. He just _knew_ that this shadowy creature wasn't going to hurt him.

An urge that wasn't his own sunk into his mind.

Chris stood up.

He walked to the window.

To the two glowing eyes.

With no fear.

No sadness.

No security.

No thinking.

Like he was a husk.

He then tried to open the window.

But it was stuck.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

Without another moment's hesitation, the boy grabbed the large flashlight he kept underneath his bed.

Then rammed its bottom into the window.

Again.

Again.

And Again.

On the fourth attempt, just as a crack started to split across its center, the glass shattered, scattering across the unfazed apparition and onto the soaked grass. Freezing wind instantly blasted the boy's face, but he didn't so-much-as flinch.

And he could finally make out most of the body of his visitor.

A rabbit animatronic, with the shape and build being just a little different than Spring Bonnie's. Completely black, but not the black like a robot's shell or a piece of obsidian. No. Not a single ray of light reflected off its dark metal skin. It didn't even look wet. The glowing eyes that still stared at him were the only source of anything other than what looked like a black hole.

The shadowy rabbit then turned around and started walking off.

Chris didn't give it another thought.

Making sure to not touch the sharp, broken glass of his window, Chris felt his hand grip the railings, and his legs push themselves upward. He then jumped past the jagged points which made up the opening, his shoes crunching atop the broken glass when he landed.

Immediately, he was completely drenched, and all that appeared around him was rain.

But some way. Somehow. Chris could still make out the rabbit.

It continued to move away from his house, almost appearing to float.

Chris followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best explanation I have for those bloody footprints at the end of Midnight Motorist.


	24. Midnight Motorist

While William Afton was driving home, he'd decided to pull over and gather himself behind Fredbear's before he crashed into something or threw up. It'd just-so-happened to be the closest, most familiar place near him at the time when he couldn't handle it anymore. Already the businessman had been having a shitty day. So of course, when he only wanted to go somewhere to drown his stress away, William had been hit with a punch of nauseous from the alcohol's toxins, mixed in with a sliding car on the slick road. Thus, he had to swerve out of the way and blink himself awake every couple of minutes because of this damn flash flood.

Perhaps it wasn't the best idea, because the man was drunker than he realized.

And now there was a little girl lying dead behind his restaurant.

He'd sped away in a slight daze as soon he realized she wouldn't wake up, just after throwing the body behind the dumpsters. But only doing that instead of burying it or dumping her into the closest river, also didn't seem wise. However, he'd been too stunned to think the clean-up details through.

And yes, William had been drunk when he clasped his hands around her warm neck.

But not unaware.

He knew why he did it.

There was a multitude of reasons besides just Chris.

Though he was the main one.

So… truth be told… just simply… the _feeling_ of having something so structurally complicated, so _full of life_ … with its own little thoughts, in its own little body… but caged in William Afton's total control...

Heh.

Just literally being handed the opportunity to suffocate the light out of anything with his own bare hands however he wanted; feeling them struggle with every ounce of their energy beneath William, only for him to come out on top with little effort. The way their pulse spiked out of desperation but then slowed to a calming rhythm beneath his fingers before going silent. His own lifely frustrations leaving with their soul. Knowing the fascinating process of all their organs desperately trying to keep the victim alive, but just ended up making their death that much more agonizing.

It… well…

It brought him back to his fondest memories of when he was a boy.

And before tonight, he'd never be able to fathom just how satisfactory a human would be compared to the average insect or vermin or even dogs. He had indeed always wondered just how far the human body would go to stay alive, especially in his own presence. Why mindless cells worked so hard every day to keep the one who'd torture them alive - which admittedly was a key part of his inspiration for the Funtime Circus Baby, and soon to be more Funtimes.

Technically, it didn't really kill them.

It wasn't supposed to.

He'd miscalculated how long the test subject would have enough air.

When all the chaos of that day had died down, he hadn't been able to make it to her in time.

But William had forgotten about that painful day for one second. Because during this stormy night, he'd experienced a high of no kind - the high he'd been starved of for so long and alcohol could only wish to match - flowed through his body in a blissful rush. He found himself not being able to stop squeezing. Charlie was just so laughably weak compared to his natural male adult strength.

Though past his fascination. Past the hypnotism of watching every part of the body struggling to hold on while he utterly dominated-

Was anger.

Pure, ripe hot rage - for the little girl being able to charm his son away from him like some sort of desperate prostitute.

And even some for Henry. The man who'd chosen to keep such an advanced piece of technology - something William could've used, probably made better, to stop Elizabeth - a secret from his business partner, but also a friend.

He thought back to when an underling came up during their break and happily told William that when he took his own boy to Fredbear's a few times, he saw how Chris was "doing much better." Smiling almost all day with the little Emily girl - his Chris, who refused to say anything during their day together, the day William had given his son after-

After…

Elizabeth…

Because Michael...

And Christopher had just...

William gripped his steering wheel harder in order to prevent swerving off the road. He could feel his usual sharp mind growing fuzzier with each thought about the three children who wanted to do everything but listen to their father. Whether that fuzz was growing worse from the alcohol or sleep deprivation, he couldn't say, nor did he really care. William would worry about the problem children and eventually Henry after he sat down at a bar.

The very thought of that red bow placed perfectly on ginger hair and wide emerald eyes staring up at him with nothing but adoration, made William want to drown himself in wine.

Or feel a lung being crushed.

But beer would do for the rest of the night.

Perhaps.

Speaking of which, he was there.

Jr's was a hidden ghetto bar not too close, but also not too far from his home. There was zero possibility of the head Afton ever admitting that he'd come here. The place was as shoddy and dirt-cheap as a suicidal gutterpup could get. Or where the depressed fathers of this bloody town could go when they needed a break from their families.

The high-standard chunk of William's personality absolutely loathed everything about the shack of poison, but at the end of the day, it was quick and usually effective. Plus, he didn't have to worry about looking presentable as much as he would usually prefer. The crackheads who resided at the bar were the last people William Afton wanted to give the time of day.

He parked his car before stepping out into the rain, hardly giving it any mind while he approached the building.

Packer, Jr's most common but biggest bouncer, stood at the door, wearing a bright green raincoat. He immediately sighed when his eyes caught sight of who was approaching. William couldn't decide if he admired the man's dedication to his job during weather like this, or was just an idiot who couldn't contemplate what was going on around him.

"Packer," William greeted.

The large man's frown deepened, though it looked more disappointed than angry. But he still took no time to cut to the chase. "Come on, you know you can't be here."

For a split second, William didn't know what he was talking about.

But he soon found his hand making its way up to the cheek which wore a faded bruise.

And the memories he'd been blocking out flooded back.

William had gotten into more than a few fights here at Jr's. None of that were really his fault. Just a couple of hickling yanks who'd overheard him order, then had drunkenly told the English man to "leave their turf" and "swim back home and drink tea with your queen."

They also said something about his teeth, which was pretty ironic considering how they each only had a max of four.

Still, even through the booze, William had been too patient and politely declined. It was only when they wouldn't shut up, where William then openly said (mostly to himself) that he was fascinated by how grown men could apparently stagnate mentally at the age of four.

And well, one thing led to another.

Even days later when he returned, the hicks still refused to leave him alone.

William let out a sigh. "Packer. You know none of that was my fault."

The tall man in his lime green jacket folded his arms stubbornly, then shook his head. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

 _"Fine."_ the Englishman spat out, already on his way back to his purple car. What a waste of his time this had been.

There were no other hidden joints close by that he knew of, but getting cheap beer at his local gas station - especially because he looked like a mutt who'd slept in the rain - when he was this exhausted, was now the last thing William felt like doing. And considering how his day was going, William wouldn't be surprised if he walked in while a sloppy burglary was taking place.

He couldn't say even his own home had been enjoyable this past month, but it sounded better than truly anything else.

William opened the car door, soaking the interior even more so than he'd already had since leaving Fredbear's. Perhaps cleaning its interior was a job he could give Michael to do - though William didn't know if he trusted the devilish teen to not intentionally screw a wire up.

Letting out a breath of frustrated air, the drenched Afton then jammed his key into the ignition, rammed his foot into the pedal, then sped home.

Now, William hated false hope and considered himself very practical.

But he wondered if tonight, Chris would be happy to see him.

* * *

Kinda like how Jeremy could tell Michael had gotten tired of video games, the Afton swore he could see his friend losing brain cells the deeper they got into the show.

"I can tell you have no clue what's going on, Fitzgerald."

"I'm just… kinda confused," he admitted sheepishly. "B-but don't-!"

Snatching up the remote, Michael flicked off the TV.

Jeremy whipped his head around, looking upset. "M-Michael!"

The teen in question rolled his eyes. "Come on, Jeremy. We've been watching for a while now. We're doing something else."

Jeremy frowned. "Are you gonna make me pick?"

"Yeah."

"That's not fair, Mike. I don't know what you keep here."

Michael sighed, aware that he was right. "Yeah, I know… my dad doesn't like to have a lot of stuff - besides what he keeps in the basement. But that's always locked." he shrugged. "We don't really have games either since he hardly ever invites people over."

The blond hummed.

"Well, um…"

Michael raised an eyebrow, doing his best to remain patient.

Jeremy shrugged. "We could just talk about stuff? I-If you want to..."

Still looking skeptical, the Afton replied. "About what?"

"Uh, I dunno… what do you wanna talk about?"

"Hmph. I asked you first."

Jeremy groaned, though it was light-hearted. Michael even nearly chuckled. Then as if preparing for a special moment, Jeremy turned his entire body directly towards him, sitting with his legs crossed on the couch.

"Ok.… um…" he paused for a moment, thinking. His eyes drifted towards the television before he asked,"How'd you get into Immortal and the Restless?"

Michael held back a sigh, instead doing it internally. Well, he couldn't complain since he'd told Jeremy to ask. With that in mind, he then took a moment to contemplate back before talking.

"It was a late night show my mum would watch. At first I'd sneak out of my room and watch from the corner. To be honest, I didn't really get it either at first - but it was a better option than sleep." he found himself breaking eye contact with his friend, slightly smiling at the second fond memory he'd had this day. "My dad actually ended up catching me." Michael let out a small chuckle. "Bloody hell he was mad. Woke up my sister, and-"

He felt himself nearly choked on his words.

At the thought of…

_This is your fault._

Michael swallowed. Great. Now he probably looked like a spear had been jabbed into his head. The teen quickly put on an unbreaking scowl, now wanting to get the story over with.

"She calmed all of us down. But then the next night, let me watch with her without him knowing - put the other episodes on tapes and stuff."

"Did uh… do most of your hobbies come from your mom?" he asked quietly.

"Mmm…" thinking about it now... "I guess a few things… though not really drawing…"

Jeremy's eyes immediately lit up, as if he'd forgotten about the previous awkwardness. "You draw? Like, color it in and stuff?"

 _Shit._ He hadn't meant to let that slip.

Michael scoffed, crossing his arms. "Just doodles… crappy ones at best."

Jeremy let out a breath of disbelief. "Man… you cook, you draw… what else are you keeping from me?"

"None of your damn business!" he snapped, though there wasn't as much force behind it as he would've liked.

His friend giggled. "Well, you should sho-!" Jeremy suddenly cut himself off, his face twisting into realization. "uh..." Jeremy then fake coughed, collecting himself from his previous excitement. "Would you mind showing me?"

"Pfft. Yes."

"Yes you'll show me or yes you won't?"

"No."

"What does that even-"

"Alright!" the Afton interrupted, fed up. "It's my turn to ask something!"

The taller opened his mouth as if getting ready to argue, but didn't, probably realizing he'd been doing almost nothing but asking questions. So Jeremy stayed silent, staring at Michael expectantly.

Ah. Fantastic. He'd just made a big deal about Jeremy's ability to not stop talking, and now he couldn't even think of one thing to ask.

And the way Jeremy was staring at him…

Stupid stormy grey eyes. How could one even have grey eyes like those?

Ugh. Well, Jeremy had asked him about something he liked, soooo…

"Why do you like video games?" Michael asked plainly.

Jeremy blinked as if waking up from a dream. "Oh! Ha, it's nothing really that sentimental…" he rubbed the back of his neck in that nervous way of his. "Uhhhh… I think I was like… six? Yeah… yeah, it was eight years and eight months ago…"

Huh. Michael didn't know if he was weirded out or impressed with his friend for possibly remembering the exact date.

Jeremy continued. "It was just a little family gathering we did up in a cabin. I'm sure you're aware, but Fredbear's didn't really have the arcade machines yet. So anyways I was up in the cabin, and My cousin had a Magnavox Odyssey. Looking back, it really didn't run that well. Pretty niche. But I just remember being able to go through game after game for hours. I don't honestly know how… the variety was pretty barren… I guess I just hadn't seen anything like it before. Oh! And actually - Rick even let me keep it!"

"Really? Why?"

Jeremy shrugged. "Said he was already bored of it and I'd definitely make better use."

"Huh. Do you still have it?"

His friend immediately smiled proudly, and sat up a little straighter. "Yep! Haven't played the thing in years, but it's a good nostalgia item."

Michael hummed, looking around the barren space. "Well, as you've pointed out, the Afton's just love having stuff just to have stuff."

Jeremy pretended to look offended. "Are you calling me a hoarder?"

"Nah. I've seen your house. Guess it's just a bit more decorative."

Jeremy nodded, looking around at their mostly barren walls. "So your dad's never once been a fan of decorations?"

"Obviously."

"Heh. I feel like that's pretty ironic, you know? Considering he owns a pizza party place… but I assume he's more into the business side of things?"

Michael shrugged. "Well, more-so now?"

Jeremy perked up, immediately making that "I want you to elaborate further" face.

Ugh. Shit, shit, shit. He really needed to stop vomiting out this embarrassing crap about his life to his friend. Drawing was one thing, but Michael absolutely did not want to start talking about the weird performing his old man would do in the older days.

"It's nothing. Forget it." he scoffed.

"I didn't say anything!"

"Your face says it all."

Instead of continuing to argue further, Jeremy simply let out a half-hearted sigh. "Fine. I get that you don't wanna talk about your dad."

"I didn't say that."

"Your face says it all." he shot back without missing a beat. The blond's lips then rose into a smug smirk.

Michael stared.

_Oh._

_That… that..._

That stupid pompous shit-eating dopey grin this… this conniving twit had the gull to give Michael Afton… because… because...

_**Damn it. Why were his cheeks growing warm?** _

Whatever reason, he blamed Jeremy.

Michael folded his arms stubbornly, glaring away. "Tch. He'd just… he'd..." Freakin' damn it. He was actually going to say it. Just when he vowed he wouldn't. Fine. But if he was, no way he was gonna appear embarrassed. "He'd perform sometimes."

Enter shocked-faced Jeremy.

"Wait just… as himself?"

"Psh. No. He'd wear the bloody springlock rabbit costume."

"So…" his eyes somehow widened more. "Wait, really? Your dad - William Afton - would-"

 _ **"Yes, alright?!"**_ he snapped, absolutely _loathing_ how much of a big deal his friend continued to make out of this. "Wanna keep talking about how I'm apparently the son of a loon?"

Silence.

Jeremy shrunk down, intimidated.

**_Damn it._ **

"I…Mike, I'm sorry… I-"

"Don't say that," Michael grumbled, feeling his chest tighten.

The blond ignored him, already sitting up, and speaking a bit more firmly as if the words had somehow given him confidence. "I'm sorry and I mean it. I wasn't…" he seemed to think of his next words carefully. "I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable."

"I'm fine," he grunted. Whether it was to convince Jeremy or himself, Michael wasn't sure. "I… didn't mean to yell…"

"It's ok."

"Psh. Yeah, I know."

More dreadful silence.

Then to his own horror, Michael spoke. Softly.

"He would just…" Why was he talking, why was he talking, why was he talking about this? Was it the awkward silence? Michael just found the words leaving his lips.

Jeremy sat and listened, but no longer wore that eager expression for knowledge. Now he just looked complacent.

That helped it to feel less weird.

"It's not a big deal. It's just kinda weird to think about. My dad being like that around kids…" He shook his head. "But I guess it made sense. From what I remember, their business was really small, so he and Henry did I think all of the performings at first."

His friend nodded. "But you said not anymore, right?"

"Yeah. Now it's just meetings and building robots and stuff. At least I think." It's not like his father liked to talk about work with Michael of all people.

Jeremy hummed. "Yeah, I guess that would feel like jumping the shark, huh?"

Michael just shrugged.

Jeremy, probably feeling awkward, bit at his lip. "Well… I know all parents are different… but I think they all kinda just do weird things, ya know?"

Michael scoffed at the attempt of another cheesy lesson. "Why are you so interested in this?"

The blond slumped his shoulders up and down. "I dunno," he answered sincerely. "We just started talking about it, and I got curious."

_Like you always are._

"Ha. Well, you're a pretty 'curious' guy."

The blond's features suddenly started to crumble. "I-I…" Oh bloody to all hell. This bastard was looking ashamed again. "I… yeah, I know…"

"It wasn't an insult."

"I-I know…"

Michael felt himself growing frustrated. "So stop acting like it is."

Jeremy just smiled. Except it was a sad smile. "Heh. I'll try…"

The Afton wanted to reply, but found that nothing landed on his tongue. Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it. Damn Jeremy, sounding like he'd already given up. Damn Jeremy trying to look happy but failing miserably…

_VrRRrrr…._

Hadn't they already had this conversation?

_vvRrrRr…._

How could someone like Jeremy Fitzgerald always be guilty about themselves? Was he this much of an idiot?

"Listen Fitzgerald, I-"

_VrRRrrr…._

Hold up.

Wait.

Jeremy looked up, perplexed.

What was that sound?

He'd heard it before, when-

The answer popped into his head a split second later.

_Oh-_

"Oh, shit."

"What?" The sadness from the teen's face vanished, being replaced with alarmed confusement. "Mike-"

 ** _"SSSSHHHHH!"_** Michael smacked his hand over Jeremy's mouth, much to the surprise of his friend. The blond's grey eyes danced around widely, as if not believing what was actually happening.

 _"Shut up and go to my room."_ he hissed without an explanation.

Jeremy's eyes sparked with realization just as the _CLANG_ of their garage door could be heard.

Without even nodding in understanding, the tall teen acted with speed and momentum Michael didn't even know he had. Before their clock sounded so much as let out another tick, Jeremy was off the couch and racing down the hall.

Except… something was-

His jacket. It was still on the chair. And his shoes still sat by the door.

Putting his foot in his mouth to keep himself from screeching every cuss he knew, the Afton flung himself off the cushion, nearly sliding down on his hind as he snatched the neon windbreaker off the wooden chair.

And well, Jeremy must've realized what he'd forgotten, since he was now back in the living room, waving his arms to get Michael's attention while not making any noise, as if he was at touch-down during the quarter-finals.

Speaking of the Afton, Michael felt like his mind was a bottle filled with baking soda and vinegar with nothing but a cheap cork keeping it under control.

He used it to his advantage.

So -as if acting on instinct - the shorter fisted the neon thing into a ball, then flung the blond's jacket at him as if the wet item of clothing was made of fire. Jeremy caught it square-in-the-center of his chest. Less than two seconds after, Michael was also flinging his friend's sneakers across the living room. Jeremy managed to catch one, but the second's aim was off, and flew past his head. Though it turned out to be a blessing in disguise, since the shoe grounded itself right in the hallway, so Jeremy was able to scoop it up just as he dashed (albeit in a fumbly way) straight towards the Afton's room.

At the same time, Michael punched the light-switch off, then practically swan-dived to their sofa center - and oh shit damn it - he could've sworn on his life that he heard the doorknob to the garage turning.

Then, as if they were in the most bizarre, perfectly timed climax of the century, Michael landed dead-center on the couch chest-first with a small "oof." All at the same time, Jeremy managed to stumble through the hall without falling and almost throw open the door off its hinges. Yet the blond was able to shut the entrance quickly and quietly, vanishing inside the darkness.

Time seemed to return to normal in the Afton boy's mind, as he sat up in his standard position and speedily flicked on the TV.

Just as Vlad's iconic laugh sounded from out of the box, Father came out of the garage.

And now, Michael really needed to slow down his breathing.

The teen glanced at the clock. The elaborate action-like movie dance he and Jeremy just pulled off honestly felt as if it'd gone on for five, too-long scenes. But the clock's hands told him it'd been almost less than a minute.

_Bloody Hell this is crazy…_

As Michael's heart threatened to pound out of his chest, and he struggled to keep his breathing under control - there was a split second where the teen loopily considered calling out, "Hey, what's up dad?" as his father began trudging towards him drunkenly. Just like almost any other kid would casually greet when their parental figure came home from work. Because Michael just felt so casual and so bloody calm right now.

"Michael."

The teen's skeleton nearly jumped out of his skin with his ghost on its tail.

_Holy hell holy hell holy hell-_

Michael tightened his left hand into a fist.

_Calm down, Afton. Calm. The. Hell. Down._

Calm breathes.

This was fine. Nothing big. Just hiding a person in his room. That wasn't bizarre or anything.

Taking a mental breath, Michael glanced up at the man suddenly in front of him. The teen couldn't make out most of his features because of the dark. However, the sharp, dark navy eyes that still somehow shone in the shade like an ornament, glowered down at his son.

It was strange. Anybody else probably would've cowered over that stare. Yet those bloody, bloody eyes that Michael had to stare at in the mirror every morning, reminded him exactly why he rebelled so often.

"What?" he spat out.

Father's eyes narrowed. "Is Chris in his room?"

He scoffed. "Yeah, where else would he be?"

To Michael's unpleasure, the older man didn't leave or didn't even yell at him to quit being a smartass. He just kept staring at him with blood-shot drunken, yet analytical eyes. Studying him.

Michael couldn't help the next thought. Bloody hell, does he know?

No. No way he could. But he was clearly suspicious of something.

"Is there something on my face?" he settled for grumbling out.

There was another unnerving pause, before finally, Father said softly-

"I just hope you're not lying."

The teen felt his stomach drop then do a flip-flop, but he wasn't sure why. Yes. Chris was in his room. Why wouldn't he be?

But… then again... he had run off to Fredbear's…

But that had been during the day and after school… so surely. _Surely_. Chris - no matter how much of a skeeving little git the brat was - no way he'd _actually_ run away during the worst kind of storm he'd ever seen in Utah. Christ _hated_ thunderstorms.

So Michael again scoffed, though the pit in his stomach refused to go away. "I don't see why you think he would. In this."

And, well, great. Since he didn't believe the teen, Father was probably gonna go check on the little man while he was asleep.

When that assumption entered his mind, Michael suddenly found himself speaking without thinking. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen getting to his brain because of the number of times he'd been holding his breath.

"Leave him alone tonight. He had a rough day."

And as soon as the words escaped his lips he realized how weird it sounded coming from him. And that probably wasn't what his old man wanted to hear.

Speaking of whom-

Bloody, bloody to all hell, how could someone stare this long without blinking?

But finally. Finally. Father simply shook his head, then headed down the hall.

The teen nearly felt himself pass out from relief. Now he just prayed that for whatever reason, the old man wouldn't go into his room. That he wouldn't find the tall blond boy right in the middle-

**_KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!_ **

He again flinched.

Michael heard Father say something, but couldn't make it out. It sounded slightly slurred.

_**KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!** _

Then, a hundred times more clearly-

"OPEN YOUR DOOR!"

The teen felt every muscle of his tense up from the safe couch he was sitting on.

_What the hell? What the hell what the hell?_

Father had a temper. That was obvious. But Michael couldn't recall the last time he'd gotten this angry this quickly. Especially to Chris. Speaking of, why wasn't he opening his door or trying to explain from the inside that perhaps he was locked in?

Chris _had_ to be in his room.

Right?

While a furious drunken William suddenly marched past the teen as if he wasn't even there and out the front door, Michael could feel his breathing go in-and-out in shallow, almost non-existent puffs. His brain screamed at him that something was wrong besides just the boy in his room.

What even was tonight?

Then, with shaky breathing, quivering limbs, and against his own will, the Afton's body stood up on its own.

His legs dragged their owner to the first room on the right.

He put his hand on the knob, turning it.

Locked. Like he'd thought.

Either Father didn't know there was a lock, for some reason respected Chris's choice to keep a door closed, or really was just that wasted.

Because Michael managed to turn the door's lock no problem.

He paused for a moment with trembling hands - not knowing why- then felt his eyes swerve to a little girl's room at the end of the hall.

Bloody hell.

Liz was still missing.

Because he'd been failing at math.

_This is your fault._

No. No no **_no._**

Deep in the back of his mind, buried under the layers of fear, and tears that were prickling at the corner of his eyes - a part of Michael still believed that Chris was in his room. Probably just curled up into a tiny, crying ball. Just like he always was. Not outside in the rain or in the back of a van during a time where no one else would be around.

He pushed the door open.

The first thing Michael felt was how cold it was in there.

And the first thing he saw, was a gaping, shattered hole in the middle of his brother's window, curtains fluttering with the wind blowing in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this was an absolute rollercoaster! Hopefully a good one for ya'll. Thanks for being patient.
> 
> Also, WOW is this recent FNAF new awesomely overwhelming. I am so freaking hyped for Security Breach and the movie. The "Mike" screenplay, yes oh yes. Thank you Scott!


	25. Enter Jeremy Fitzgerald

William stood outside at the back of his house. The rain which currently stood pelting against him again had slightly died down, but he could hardly care. The setting was still incredibly dangerous for a child to be out alone in.

He stared down at the small footprints sunken into the moist ground which lead deeper into the trees.

He felt both his fists clench in frustration. This didn't make sense. Not one damn thing about today made sense. But he could think about logistics when he dragged his son back home. He had a pretty strong hunch on where the timid boy had run off to.

 _Off to that place again,_ he thought as he began to follow the trail, stepping onto the boy's smaller prints.

_He will be sorry when he gets back._

* * *

_Jeremy sat in a cushioned chair that felt too big for him in a room without enough airconditioning, causing sweat to form in his pits. The boy's father stood a way's away, waiting in_ _a line too long, only_ _to check him in for someone who just needed braces. The older man was surprisingly relaxed where he stood, a book in his hand. On the contrary, his son had his head down, as he did nothing but play with his own two hands. He couldn't believe it was just him in the waiting room. The other kids decided to pass the time by playing in the little kids' corner. Too small and too many little-little kids for Jeremy's liking. So, that didn't really leave anything else to do as he waited to be called into his orthodontist's office._

_Time seemed to pass all but too slow as son sat in a barren waiting room._

_That is until the blond's ear's picked up the jingle of the little bell on the door being pushed open._

_Jeremy glanced up as he'd done for everyone who walked in. He wasn't sure why. The people would most likely just be strangers, and strangers weren't exactly the kinds of folks the cautious boy liked to talk to (if he could help it)._

_But he'd also just been naturally curious about the new sound that broke the dreadful silence. Plus it could be a small way to get his mind off sharp tools being shoved into his mouth._

_So with that said, he saw that the new people who walked in were also a parent and child - except a son and his mom by the fact the adult was clearly a woman._

_Jeremy found himself frowning, a bit uncomfortable._

_A woman… not looking all that great at first glance._

_She looked extremely tired, having bags that could carry the groceries and eyes which made her look as if she'd just been crying heavily, or was high. Sprouting from her head was bright orange, almost unruly hair - but not like the perm his mom had in old photos. No. This lady's hair looked like it hadn't been properly kept in days, reminding Jeremy of an untamed wildfire. The clothes she wore were also very wrinkled and disheveled, her black blouse having two buttons hanging loosely apart._

_At first, Jeremy felt a bit scared of the ginger-haired woman. Or more accurately, scared of what she'd gone through to make her look like this._

_Jeremy would've kept examining her, but she and her child separated. So, he glanced at her son next as his mom got in line, since the new kid didn't go to the kiddie's corner, but sat down._

_Right next to him._

_Who did that?_

_Well, speaking of the boy, Jeremy couldn't say he looked much better than his mother, though, he at least had life in his expression. Still not the good kind. He had on a permascowl. One that cut deeper than a hot knife through butter. He definitely didn't look happy to be here, but he also looked like the kind of kid who wouldn't be happy if he went to Disneyland._

_Jeremy already found himself wondering what this angry boy would look like if he smiled. Did he have nice, white teeth?_

**_Well, he is at the dentist's. Maybe he doesn't like his teeth and that's why he's mad?_ **

_As that thought swam around his head, Jeremy found his attention drawn to the boy's hair next. Brown. Dark brown, like sparrow's feathers. Not curly, but also definitely not straight. What was a good word for it? It was on the tip of his tongue…_

_His hair waaaaas…_

_Fluffy._

_Yeah, that was the word for his hair. Fluffy. He probably only ran a brush through it in the mornings and nothing more. Yet it kinda worked for him and his scruffy appearance._

_Also…_

_It looked pretty soft… and Jeremy would be lying if he said he didn't feel the temptation to run his hand through the feathery fluffs._

_But now that the blond had gotten a really good look at the kid, he realized that he actually looked kinda familiar. Did he go to the same school as Jeremy? He definitely wasn't in his class, so… maybe during lunch? Or perhaps a loner during recess? But his features weren't that unique, so maybe-_

_"Why are you staring at me?"_

_Jeremy all-but leaped off his chair, not knowing for a second who'd just spoken._

_Then he realized the fluffy-haired angry boy was now facing him, staring daggers with cold, dark eyes._

_Whoops._

_"W-wha…?" was all that could squirm out of his lips._

_His eyes narrowed. "Don't play dumb. You've been staring at me like your eyes are about to pop out ever since I sat down."_

_O-oh well that was-_

_Wait._

_What he just pointed out wasn't what Jeremy's mind was on now._

_It was his voice._

_The boy had an accent. One he hadn't heard before._

_"Why do you talk like that?"_

_There was a moment of silence, as the angry kid stared at him blankly. Then he spoke, albeit flatly._

_"What."_

_Jeremy opened his mouth, about to restate his question, but like the flip of a switch, he stopped, suddenly noticing something else about the boy. Something he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed immediately._

_And before he could stop himself or think a common-sense thought, the sentence was released for the other to hear. Like a random idea that popped into his head, but it came from his lips._

_"You have a black eye."_

_Silence_

_Fluffy Hair blinked like he'd been slapped. Then as if the words finally sunk in, he squinted hard at Jeremy, his frown of anger turning into confusement._

_"Yeah, and the sky's blue. Do you say that every time you go outside?"_

_"Uh…" Ok, ok Fitzgerald, ignore the sting and think fast. This guy was clearly a bit of a smartass. What was something cheeky Jeremy could respond with? So maybe they could be on the same level?_

_"N-Not if it's raining."_

_Alright, now he just looked even angrier, which Jeremy didn't get._

_"Ok, smartass-"_

_Jeremy frowned genuinely confused. "I thought you were."_

_The boy's eyes bulged. "What did you just say?"_

_"Ahhh…" that… hadn't been the right thing to say. Jeremy didn't know why he was making such a strong effort for small talk. The other people waiting were starting to stare. He didn't know this kid. Plus he had a black eye! Didn't that mean he was a troublemaker who got into fights? The type of boy his mother warned him to stay away from?_

_But…_

_Something about this angry kid just… sparked the curiosity Jeremy always felt himself having._ _He kinda just felt too into it now._ _It'd be impolite to ask, but Jeremy wanted to know **why** he had a black eye, and **why** he looked so angry. And… why the woman he came in with looked so lifeless._

_Ok. He just needed to start over. Professionally._

_Feeling somewhat confident with that idea, the blond then sat up straighter, putting his shoulders back and chest puffed out and extended his arm forward in a stiff way for a handshake. Yep. Just like he'd seen his father do with the super "important" clients._

_"Hello. I am Jeremy Fitzgerald. Will you please answer my questions?"_

_If Jeremy was honest, he expected the exasperated kid to immediately decline, slap his hand away, and call him an idiot. It actually seemed like he was going to do just that. The angry boy's eyes continued to dart back and forth at the blond's extended hand (which gravity was starting to hurt) and his stoic expression. He seemed to be trying to deduce whether or not Jeremy was a total wacko, and even opened his mouth as if to reply, but then stopped himself, perhaps actually considering._

_Just as Jeremy thought his arm would collapse from gravity's strain, the other boy spoke - albeit slowly, like answering a trick question._

_"Mmm... **maybe** … if you answer mine first." He stared at Jeremy with stone hard eyes that wouldn't so much as twitch - like trying to figure out what his angle was._

_**Well, that hardly seems fair,** he thought. But Jeremy decided to throw a bone and at least try, grateful that he was perhaps getting somewhere._

_It took him a second to remember what the other kid had first asked him._

**_Why are you staring at me?_ **

_Jeremy could feel his cheeks flush as he broke eye contact, slightly embarrassed. His arm lowered back down to his side - same with the blond's convincingly professional facade._

_"O-oh… ha ha… I was just… kinda bored."_

_Fluffy Hair raised an eyebrow. "So you stare at people when you're bored?"_

_Jeremy's head snapped up."N-no! No," he said more firmly, gathering himself. "I guess when… I-I... just when... I see…"_

_How did one finish a sentence?_

_"Jeremy!"_

_The boy turned his head towards the familiar voice._

_His father. The tall man was walking up to him. "We're up."_

_Jeremy's mouth opened to argue, but ultimately decided against it when seeing his father tapping his finger rapidly on his book. Trying to appear patient, but like his son, even he could get a bit twitchy._

_Jeremy turned his attention back to the boy one last time. He was leaned forward and staring at the ground again like they hadn't even been talking. The blond felt his heart sink._

**_Probably thinks I'm a freak._ **

_Still… as awkward and nervous as he felt, Jeremy (for some reason) didn't want to end it all just like that._

_Ok. It wasn't too late. But He only had one shot. Something clever. And funny. That's what he needed to say._

_So as Jeremy stood up, he said it. Well, the start of it. A casual start to the unexpected punchline._

_"Well, bye."_

_Wait._

_No. Even his child brain could realize the joke was horrible. He couldn't actually say-_

_"I gotta go **brace** myself."_

_Silence._

_If the other boy had a reaction, Jeremy didn't notice._

_Speaking of the exclamation "no."_

_No._

_Oh no no no, **please** no._

_That sentence had not just come out of him._

_But it had._

_And it was too late to take it back._

_Each word of that atrociously awful sentence entered one ear traveled through the space of his brain and came out the other ear. Literally. He could feel them. Every syllable and every vowel that made up that… that..._

_All that surrounded the blond melted into pitch black, his line of hearing became a buzzing haze like a tiny fly was flying around in his head. Jeremy couldn't feel his limbs, as he stood there like his own brain had short-circuited. His mouth was half-way opened into a dumb smile, and eyes wide._

_He'd said that._

_Jeremy Adam Fitzgerald._

_Had._

_Actually._

_Said-_

**_But..._ **

_He shouldn't care. He shouldn't. A stranger. That's who he'd just spent so much time thinking of the perfect thing to say for. And it wasn't like Jeremy was a lonely kid. Just a bit quiet sometimes (until the questions popped into his head, of course). An only-child who could sometimes have a harder time interacting with other kids._

_Had he really made that big of an effort because the other boy also chose to sit in a boring waiting room - next to him - instead of going into the kid-area? One who was clearly curt, despite Jeremy hardly talking to him? Did it make his brain rattle that much?_

_The answer seemed obvious._

_He hadn't immediately shut Jeremy down when they started talking, even when the blond had asked random stuff (though he thought the questions were quite simple). He could've just walked away to another spot or told him to shut up as others had. Did he feel curious about him like Jeremy had?_

**_Though in the end, I guess he just wanted to know why I was staring at him…_ **

_Jeremy's cheeks grew warm._

_Gosh, he was overthinking this. Yeah, the kid looked kinda familiar, but what were the odds they'd meet again?_

**_It's a smallish town…_ **

_Still._

_Jeremy wanted to ask where he was from, at the very least. His accent was intriguing, but also-_

_"Jer, wake up. You gotta get on the chair now."_

_Jeremy blinked out of his thoughts, his senses slowly returning to him._

_Wait, huh? Where was he-_

_Oh._

_He wasn't in the waiting room anymore._

_Now the boy stood in the dreadful teeth surgery area, his father right next to the blond and holding onto his hand. The two of them both stood in front of the large, cushioned operating chair. Jeremy guessed his father must've dragged him here._

_Jeremy frowned. He looked up at his tall dad. "D-Did I… did I zone out?" he asked quietly, despite already being dreadfully sure of the answer._

_Dad smiled humorously, letting out a small chuckle. "You did, kiddo. After saying the worst pun I've ever heard to that kid. Then you made a face like this." He then proceeded to mimic the boy's expression, half-closing his eyes and staring off with a derpy smile._

_Jeremy was glad that no one else could see his face at the moment, since he was sure he was redder than a tomato._

_"D-Dad!"_

_His father dropped the mocking expression, snickering at himself and shaking his head. "Come on Jer, it was funny! Now get on the chair."_

_Still slightly blushing, the boy obeyed, pushing himself up with his arms, allowing his awkward legs to dangle down._

_His nurse was apparently still busy, so his father decided to make small-talk. "So who was the kid you were talking to?"_

_"Huh? Oh…" Jeremy shrugged. "Uh… I don't know him… he talked to me first…"_

_His father hummed. "Had a pretty nasty black-eye there. Hope he just smacked into something and doesn't get into fights."_

_Jeremy thought back to how angry he looked just walking in. Like if anyone said anything he might decide to throw hands._

_"Yeah, me too…"_

_"Actually…" the older man's face scrunched in concentration. "You know, Jer, he actually kinda looked li-"_

_Then as if scripted, a young lady dressed in nurse blue walked into the room, interrupting his father. She looked straight at the boy. "Hi, sorry I'm late. Are you Jeremy?"_

_He turned towards her, swallowing down the disappointment of not hearing what his father was about to tell him about the kid. "Yes ma'am."_

**_Oh well,_ ** _he forced himself to think, pushing the angry scowl out of his head._ **_I didn't know him anyway..._ **

_The nurse then smiled a sickly sweet smile. "Are you ready?"_

_"Don't worry," Dad slapped him on the back, grinning. "He's braced himself for this."_

* * *

Jeremy Fitzgerald actually couldn't believe Michael Afton was letting him stay in his room. For the whole night. It all felt like the weirdest fever-dream he'd ever had.

It truly had been all circumstantial. He'd heard over the radio of a bad spring storm heading their way, so Jeremy thought it was simply obvious that it'd be better to head over to Michael's early. And while yes, he knew it was going to be a little rough, he hadn't at all predicted the weather in Utah - the state that was literally almost named Deseret - could have a storm where just a few hours ago, he was worried the windows would shatter.

It sure felt bad, but Jeremy imagined somebody from someplace in Florida or Georgia would scoff at how everyone was freaking out.

It made the teen wonder if perhaps he could've just gone home by himself. It'd seem to stress Michael out a lot that he felt the need to hide Jeremy in his room.

Jeremy had let his selfishness get the best of him… because if truth be told, he'd been having a great time. Michael had actually opened up - and apparently could cook and draw. Jeremy didn't know why Michael decided to hide the latter talent since the thought of more of those welsh cakes made him salivate.

Speaking of him, the Afton teen was probably the biggest puzzle in Jeremy's life (could that be considered sad? Was his life that boring?). And while Jeremy loved a good thousand-piece puzzle, Michael seemed more like a hundred thousand-piece puzzle, and one that still didn't make a clear image even when completed. Over the years of knowing the English boy, Jeremy felt as though he'd only been able to gather just a couple of random pieces that don't really fit. Random pieces on completely random days. Like today, where Jeremy actually learned two new things about his friend.

He sometimes missed the simpler days when they were kids, the Afton being someone Jeremy just wanted to "study."

At first glance, the explosive teen's outer shell showed nothing but bitterness and anger. Even before his mom had lost custody in court.

Yet it was the little things.

Michael telling Jeremy to fulfill his dreams.

Michael going through the trouble to make food for his friends tonight on a whim.

Michael sticking with them after all these years, even when they could be annoying.

Jeremy also wished he could say he had no idea why he liked being around Michael so much. Why he felt his heart flutter when he actually saw the angry teen smile. Why his cheeks grew hot. Why he felt as though he could sink into a puddle whenever Michael complimented him in his own Michael way.

But he knew exactly why.

Though, Jeremy wasn't sure when exactly he realized he was gay. And of all the guys in Hurricane, gay for a broken, angry British boy who took his anger out in what looked like a pretty unhealthy way.

He often found himself wondering if was fourteen too soon to be sure about your sexuality.

Then he ended up thinking, "Well… ok, just maybe I'm not? I'm still in that awkward teenage phase, right? Trying to figure out my emotions and body changes and what I dream about, and why, so…"

Jeremy sighed, rubbing at his temples, not believing his own excuses.

_Every time I think that I'm sure…_

Tommy's mocking again rang through his ears.

_Oh, so you wanna go on a date with Britain's ass?_

His cheeks grew warm. Again.

Well, at the end of the day, it didn't really matter. Michael has had an obvious crush on Marianne ever since the two first met.

He could accept that.

He _had_ accepted that.

Yep.

So now, here he was, sitting on the floor with a pounding heart. Not right in front of the door of course. In fact, the blond teen sat hidden under Michael's desk in the corner (which was already starting to get pretty uncomfortable since he had to hunch over because of his height). Just in case the head Afton decided to peep in for whatever reason. So now, Jeremy just had to wait for his friend to come in. No reason he wouldn't.

Thankfully, a new distraction came.

Unfortunately, it meant something pretty bad.

Because Jeremy could suddenly hear footsteps.

Coming his way.

The blond's blood ran cold.

For a brief moment, Jeremy felt his heart stop out of the fear that William Afton had seen him sneak into the room. But the noise quickly passed the den Jeremy sat hidden in. Though before the blond could even relax, banging on the next door down rang throughout the house, making him flinch.

Speaking.

Then more banging.

Yelling. Something about opening "the door."

Stomping that again went past him.

Finally, he could make out the loud **_SLAM!_** of the front door.

_Ok. Ok ok ok. Calm down. You're fine Jeremy. You're ok._

Alright, so based on what he just heard...

William must've left. That was the only option.

That only caused Jeremy's brain to start running a mile-a-minute and _not_ help him to calm down.

He'd sounded pretty angry. Why? Wasn't the door he went to Chris's room? Why did he bang on it? What had the little boy done? Was it something Michael did? Had he-

Wait.

Mike.

Was he alright?

 _He must be,_ Jeremy found himself reasoning. _I didn't hear anything that suggested a struggle._

But… what if William had said something bad?

Jeremy had heard the head Afton leave. He was sure of it, so that meant the blond was in the clear.

So, slowly but surely, the tall teen awkwardly crawled out from under the desk, and tiptoed up to the door, putting up his ear to it, just in case.

His ears caught another familiar sound.

Footsteps… maybe? Most likely, yet it was pretty quiet. Jeremy strained his hearing further, pressing his ear closer to the door. Each "step" was incredibly dragged out, making it sound more like the undead shuffling - or whoever was moving was doing everything in their power to stop themselves.

Mike. It had to be Mike, right? Was he coming to check on the blond?

Apparently not, because the nonchalant shuffle-steps passed the room Jeremy sat in.

Ok… well if William went to Chris' room so eagerly, then it'd make sense if Michael decided to check it out too.

Wait…

The shuffling had stopped.

And Mike hadn't given him the OK to come out yet…

But…

He'd definitely heard the front door being slammed open and shut right after a barrage of adult stomping that had to have been William. So with that in mind, _surely_ Jeremy was now in the clear to come out.

Plus, he now found himself wondering what all this fuss on Christopher was about. Was the little boy alright?

Well, only one way to find out, I guess…

Jeremy ran through his options in a millisecond. Stay here and wait around being useless, or possibly helping out Michael Afton?

Obvious answer.

Still, without his own permission, the blond abruptly found himself putting a shaking hand on the door's knob, then quickly turned the doohickey with a small _squeak!_

Jeremy couldn't explain why he suddenly felt so nervous. Perhaps it was the thought that William was still here, even if that didn't make sense.

Still, the blond prodded the wooden door open. Barely. Just enough so he could narrowly peek straight into the hall.

No one. At least in his narrow line of vision.

Jeremy continued to nudge the door, centimeter by centimeter with as much precision as possible, glancing left and right each time to make sure no one was coming.

Eventually, he'd opened the door enough to where he could actually step out.

Not a sound could be heard within the walls, at least to Jeremy's ears. Not even the rain. Just a terrified kid's stammering heart.

But the fact that no one pounced or called him out made for a good sign.

Jeremy looked right.

An empty living room, minus the turned on TV playing his friend's favorite soap, which Jeremy somehow hadn't heard over the other sounds in his mind.

Then he glanced left and-

Mike.

The Afton teen stood in his brother's doorway, just enough that Jeremy could make the tufts of dark hair.

The blond felt the tensity in his muscles immediately deflate like an old balloon.

Thank goodness… Jeremy could ask him what's wrong!

The blond hurriedly checked over his shoulder just one last time before heading over to the other room.

"Uh, hey, Mike…" he said softly. The brunette didn't react. "I-I know you're probably gonna be mad…" the blond walked up behind the Afton, hesitantly reaching towards him to get his attention. "But I was worried-"

Jeremy's eyes caught over Mike's shoulder.

He froze in his tracks, hand dropping to his side.

The teen simply stared.

Out of all the things Jeremy expected to see inside timid Chris' room, a shattered window with tiny fragments of glass dusted throughout the carpeted floor was certainly _not_ one of them.

Concerns engulfed his skull.

Wait… what? What on Earth was he staring at? Ok, yes, a broken window, and an empty room, duh. But… but… who? Who had done this?

 _Chris of course,_ he immediately thought, _this is his room._

Jeremy didn't really know the little boy all that well, but even he knew the "wimpy" brother Michael complained about would never go out during a thunderstorm. Much less break a window open. How could he even have the strength to do that?

Ok, but hypothetically, if he had, then why would he do it?

On his best days, Jeremy liked to think of himself as observant, but when thinking about a kid who somehow hardly showed his face or spoke around the blond even after years, his mind came to a blank.

It frustrated him. A lot. But if one thing was for certain, it's that Christopher Afton is not in his room. So if the broken window suggested anything-

Jeremy felt his heart drop.

A dreadful realization hit him.

Oh, man…

Had… had he been kidnapped? Like Elizabeth?

Before Jeremy could worriedly ponder any further, the stone-like figure in front of him turned around and stalked forward, snapping the blond out of his thoughts. He'd forgotten that Mike was even there, and how it'd been him who Jeremy had been looking for. And the other teen had already passed him, now nearly out of the hall.

"Wh-" he starts following the Afton. A large chunk of Jeremy's brain told him to go back to Chris' room, so maybe he could find clues and discover what happened. To keep him from possibly panicking or jumping to conclusions. But the blond pushed those feelings away, since if his own worst fear was Chris' room being broken into, then he had no idea (and certainly didn't want to think about) what hellish conclusions Michael Afton had drawn when the Afton saw his brother's room becoming completely soaked because of a shattered window.

"M-Mike wait."

Michael ignored him. It was very clear now that he was heading towards the garage. Why there exactly, the blond wasn't sure.

Speaking of, Jeremy felt his fingers begin to fidget together.

"We should call the police."

The brunette opened the garage door, flicking on the light before stomping down the short set of stairs.

"Mike."

He started to rummage through the back of a shelf, still going about his business like Jeremy wasn't even there. Even the good-natured Fitzgerald boy admitted that through his frenzied mind, Michael's total shutdown was starting to get on his nerves because of a potential crime scene they just saw. And also freak him out since his friend was acting like a robot.

So in one final attempt to get Mike's attention, he placed a hand softly on the shorter's hunched over shoulder.

"Michael, we need to-"

_WHOOOOSSHHHH_

Before he even knew it, something flat, silver, and shiny stood just centimeters away from his nose. Jeremy held back a scream, before realizing he was currently staring at a bat with dozens of nails hammered into the top, with Mike holding the thing's end. As if he was a knight and this hunk of wood was his sword.

Jeremy felt as if his brain was about to short-circuit. Wha… what the hell was going on tonight? Wait, no, thinking about it now, he shouldn't keep his focus on that, or else Jeremy would definitely go through a mental breakdown. Because despite his better judgment, it felt as though this Afton was about to ram a fist full of dulled metal nails into his face. And as much as one trusted somebody, it could kinda be hard _not_ to at least get a pit in your stomach when a weapon of any kind was pointed straight at you.

Out of his own control, words began to regurgitate out of the blond, faster than he could comprehend.

"WHOAWHOAWHOAWHOAWAITWAITWAITMIKEIT'SJUSTMEIT'SJUSTMEPLEASEDON'TSMASHMYSKULLOPENOHMY G-!"

_"Shut. Up."_

Jeremy shut up.

Michael lowered the bat back down to his side.

Then he stood up, walking past his friend as if he didn't exist.

Jeremy sat there for a split second, dumbfounded as incomprehensible thoughts raced across his mind in practically a nanosecond.

But one stood out.

He had a horrible hunch of what the Afton was about to go out and do.

Jeremy suddenly found himself standing up straight, albeit on shaky legs, as he again pursued the pissed-off guy. But this time, he zipped past Michael and up to the garage's doorway, blocking the brunette's way.

Michael stopped.

"Get the fuck out of my way, Fitzgerald."

Jeremy ignored him, the cuss that would send his mother on a tangent, and the hole in his own gut.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The teen's dark eyebrows somehow narrowed further.

"The hell does it look like I'm doing?"

"Like you're about to go beat the shit out of someone!"

"Yeah, dipshit, I am. If - _when_ I find the fucking brat and _whatever perverted dickwad took him!"_

Jeremy nearly jumped from the sudden and dramatically desperate screech in Michael's tone, which made his voice sound like it was on the verge of cracking. It was obvious who "Him" was, and the Afton literally looked like he was ready to fight tooth and especially _nail_ to get to his brother.

Michael suddenly tried to move past him again, but the blond didn't budge.

He could just about feel the acid drip of the Afton's tongue, mixed with the burning beam of pyre emitting from his dark eyes.

Nonetheless, Jeremy quite literally swallowed down the fearful feeling trying to burst from his lips. Obviously, the blond was more than freaking out internally himself, but Mike looked like he was on the verge of a rage-filled panic attack. Neither of them wanted to be in this situation, but at least one of the terrified boys had to think just a little bit rationally.

That still didn't keep Jeremy from stuttering like a VHS tape played one-too-many times.

"L-Listen! Ju-ju-just listen! Please." he begged, putting his hands out as pathetic protection before Mike could barrel past with the anger of a bull seeing red (as the myth stated).

To Jeremy's complete surprise, Mike seemed to listen. Barely. It looked as if any moment his blood vessels would pop and spray all over like a shaken pop can. His whole body was tense and red and shaking. Shaking badly. And something deep in Jeremy told him the brunette was quivering because of something more than just anger.

The Afton boy was a ticking time bomb. So he had to make his point fast.

Jeremy took in a deep breath.

"Look I don't have siblings so I know I don't know how you feel but I don't know where he is and you don't know where he is but I assume your dad went out looking for him so he'll probably be pissed if you went out in the storm too and I know you don't care what he thinks and you don't care what I think but please please you can get hurt so why don't wejustcallthecops?" he squeaked out the last part with barely any air left in him.

Michael simply stared.

Oh gosh, had he been too emotional and from the heart?

Well, apparently Mike had only gotten one thing out of the blond's rambling.

"No. Cops."

Jeremy ignored the urge to question Mike on that because... well, he felt like he knew why, so he jumped to the next best thing.

"Ok. Ok, fine, whatever. No police." At least for now. "Th-then why d-don't we just... wait for them to come back?"

Mike's eyes flashed, and a vein atop his forehead bulged. He then immediately opened his mouth in a snarly way, probably to scream out his disapproval.

"Be-because he may come back! Your dad with Chris, I mean."

Mike moved forward with more speed than Jeremy could've anticipated. Alright, that clearly hadn't been the right thing to say.

"P-PLUS! Plus," he stated more calmly when the Afton stopped, now just inched away from his face. And well, Jeremy would be lying if he said he hadn't... thought of the kind of moment before, but it wasn't nearly as enjoyable as he previously pictured for... obvious reasons. Mike being less angry and far less sweaty.

Though that didn't take away from how soft his lips looked.

ANYWAYS. Jeremy knew he had one more shot. One more shot until the shorter did something bad with that bat.

"We didn't get a good look at his room, so... maybe there are more clues? T-To what happened?"

...

"Fucking. Fine."

Jeremy felt his legs almost buckle. He forced a smile onto his face. Strong strong strong be strong, he told himself out of fear that Mike would run past him if he actually collapsed. "Haha... great, but uh..." he looked down at his friend's dominant hand. "W-Would you mind uh... please putting the bat down?"

Michael released the wooden stick right then and there, but didn't hesitate to stop the inferno he stared into the tall blond's skull. There was an awkward pause between the two as they both listened (with Jeremy flinching) to the bat **_CLANGING_** against the garage's stairs before it rolled down each step one-by-one and eventually rolled to where... Jeremy didn't know.

The blond was about to say something to break their eye... staring, but Mike beat him to it, pushing Jeremy out of the way, hand-to-chest.

It had force behind it - Jeremy staggered back just a little as Mike passed him, but the push surprisingly... wasn't aggressive. Or foolishly thoughtless like the shove Tommy had given him weeks ago. No. Michael clearly wanted Jeremy to get out of the way because he was pissed, but he still hadn't taken that anger out on him... for the most part. It'd felt like a cat butting their head against their owner's hand, so they'd move it.

And no, Jeremy didn't believe Mike would actually smash that serial-killer like bat into his noggin'.

Jeremy turned, letting out a sigh of relief as he watched his friend thankfully turn right and head down the hall.

Hopefully, he could keep him from running out into the-middle-of nowhere.

Jeremy was certainly aware of the possibility of the young boy being a target like his sister.

So he prayed that William would come back with an alive Chris.


	26. Who's Actually Sorry?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO EVERYONE! I'M SO HAPPY TO BE UPDATING AGAIN YOU HAVE NO IDEA. Well, ok, I'm sure ya'll do - since it's been, like, more than a month, but thank you all for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Gotta say though, this chapter was both difficult, fun, heartbreaking, yet exciting to write. Angst angst angst and some more angst.)

_Follow me to the great unknown_

_Past trees and rivers and mountains and death_

_To where her spirit has not passed or flown_

_A little voice, a tiny wisp, with feeling confused and lost without breath_

_Follow me and escape the pain of that unfair game_

_From sly smiles and lovely lies which bleeds out red_

_Violent violet hands masked in the norm, twisting and turning lives to shame_

_Sun shines, hare runs, trap springs, none fled_

_Follow me where you can win_

_Follow me so you can save_

_Follow me and run from their sin_

_Follow me and decide your grave_

_**Follow me. Follow me to the golden b-** _

_** FLASH! ** _

A blinding white light, one which fell from the sky, sparked before green eyes.

The small boy felt himself fall back, landing rear-first into the mud, then flat on his back.

Chris blinked as if he'd just woken up, with the strange words leaving his head. His vision was slightly blurred and his brain fuzzy, as if the rain had carried it to —

Hold on… rain?

 _The rain…_ he realized as Chris felt the droplets peck his cheeks. He stared up at the dark clouds from where he lay, his muddled mind unsure what to make of what was going on around him.

It was rai-

_** SsssSNnnNNNAAaaPPppppPPP! ** _

A shriek of bloody-murder escaped the boy's throat just as the sky decided to release its deadly, ear-splitting traps of extreme white-hot calidity. Whipping and flaring erupted from the clouds, as streams of white bright veins raced across the bloated dark skin. Beads upon beads of wet drops blanketed the boy like a second layer of skin. His hair sat plastered straight down to his skull, the shoes he hadn't bothered to take off now housed two puddles his small feet stood forced to sit in.

Eyes wide as saucers, Chris began to gawk around widely in a desperate attempt to find something other than rain, lightning, or trees. Without the boy's control, he felt his head snap back and forth so fast and erratically, it seemed close to flying right off his shoulders. But Chris didn't notice. In his warped line of vision, he could only see the monstrous trees towering over him, needles pointing through the shadows like tiny, razor-sharp teeth ready to dig deep into his flesh.

Chris only heard the clouds' shrieks, the bitter wind blowing angrily against his wet body. The air traveled into his ears like they were tiny caves it wanted to explore, swirling and whooshing around in a raging, taunting dance. The wind cut off just about every other sound around — including the boy's own thoughts.

He could _feel_ the rain. The tiny, icy little imps who bit at his skin before sliding down into the mud.

It suddenly hit the boy that he did in fact, have no clue where he was.

Chris suddenly felt his lungs take in a breath of the cold air.

Then another.

And another.

Each one - Quicker. Quieter. Shallower.

Soon, he was hyperventilating so fast that Chris could feel his head begin to spin. The trees circled around him in a mocking manner, the wind howled with laughter, and the rain continued to nibble through him gleefully.

The boy couldn't move, it was as if he'd grown roots into the mud. There was nowhere to run. No way to escape all living things which hated him.

So Chris did the one thing he could do no matter any situation.

He cried.

Chris let out a wail that nearly rose above the storm itself, as if the wind had decided to carry the sound to the clouds. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. A spirit screaming in emotional pain from beyond the grave, realizing they're gone. Lost. A lost soul unable to move on.

Chris didn't know when, but he had curled up into a ball, allowing the sticky mud to stain half his body. Chris rocked back and forth, unable to decipher his tears to the rain.

He also wasn't sure how long he'd been there, wailing to the sky, but eventually, the boy's ear-splitting shrieks morphed into something even uglier.

Raw hacking, lungs now _burning._ Burning like an acid filled the organs rather than air. Chris felt his chest heave hard, up and down, up and down, a new pain blossoming as he continued to choke on nothing.

Choking.

He couldn't _breathe._

Chris reaped over, wheezing into the wet ground. Coughing, coughing, coughing. Pain — there was nothing but _pain_ in his chest as his heart continued its job, desperately trying to pump out blood throughout his small body.

Well, sooner or later, Chris threw up. Even after it all came up, the boy continued gagging, his stomach refusing to give up its pushing. It felt as though a fire were crawling up his throat, a fire that not even the rain pouring into his mouth could put out. But eventually, just as Chris thought it'd never stop, the boy was able to take in gulps of air at a time, tasting the toxic bile deep within his vowels - only to go back to his coughing fit.

 _It's never going to end,_ Chris realized in his hysteria. The world hated him and loved to see his laughable suffering. Some higher being was forcing him to cough up his happiness, his sanity. And for a brief moment, Chris couldn't remember anyone in his life. They were all just faces; meaningless shadows who faded right past him. Chris had nothing. Nothing that could ground him, no hand to pull him out of the storm. No hope - just agony.

 _I'm alone,_ he thought.

Alone.

Alonealonealonealone _alonealonealonealonealone_ _ **alonealonealonealonealoneALONEALONEALONEALONEALONEALONEALONEALONE IM ALL A—**_

_** "CHRISTOPHER!" ** _

A voice so loud and so booming rose above not just the storm, but the rumination of sadness, breaking straight through the boy's walls.

He blinked blearily, confused as he looked up at the shadowed figure in front of him. But… wha...? How long had they been calling his name?

 _No… no no no…_ he then thought dazedly to whoever was talking to him, still coughing, hot tears leaking from his eyes. _You don't care. You don't. Nobody cares… nobody._

He could hear the figure talking, even feel them holding his shoulders, before they held him up in a sitting position, trying to snap the boy out of it. Awake. Awake. You need to stay awake. But the words hardly reached past his eardrums - it was nothing but meaningless sound, a buzz. He could barely feel the person shaking him. Or even the hard smack across his cheek. Why would they hit Chris? Did they hate him? Probably - everyone did.

It was dark. It'd been dark for hours, but it seemed to be growing even darker since Chris could no longer make out the distinguishing shapes. Huh. He'd stopped coughing too. And crying. Wow. That was nice. Just about all his senses were fading. He could just sleep and never think, or worry. Just fall asleep forever...

Chris felt his head lull over, no longer able to hold it up. More shaking. More slaps. Stop. Stop it. Don't you dare pass out. Don't you fucking _dare_. Do you not realize how much trouble you're in? Wake up wake up wake up.

Chris fell asleep.

* * *

Chris was nothing but a conniving little fucking bastard who loved nothing more than to fuck over his older brother for his own amusement.

Why? Just... Why? Why. The. Hell. Was. Michael. Sur. Prised? It wasn't like it was the first time. Chris had run off before - hell, the assumption that he'd done so tonight had even crossed the Afton's mind, but he'd thought he knew his younger brother well enough to say confidently he wouldn't shatter a fucking window just to scamper off into a storm.

Yet Michael Afton, the stupid bastard, had been wrong.

It didn't take too long to come to that conclusion. He and Jeremy went straight to the brat's room after Michael agreed to investigate - only to find clues that would help determine where Chris had been "taken" to, so he could go get him.

That scheming motherfucker.

Turns out, Michael's freak out in front of his best friend had been meaningless, thus making him look like a fucking moron.

First of all, there was no sign of a struggle. Chris's room was like it'd always been, everything where it had been last. Second, based on the fact that nearly all the glass laid directly outside, that meant window had been broken from the _inside_ of the room, _not_ the exterior. Michael didn't know how the brat managed to do it, but Michael supposed he couldn't be too surprised if Chris found _something_ lying around here that he then decided to chuck through it. But the most damning evidence of all, above everything, which finally set the teen over the edge, was the small footprints leading away from their home, with bigger ones (definitely Father's) heading in the same direction.

Jeremy has become silent after that. So had Michael. He had no words. Because truly, no words existed that could describe the utter slash of all that made sense in the universe, when staring down at those small footprints, the truth finally dawning on his dumb head.

What. The hell. Was Chris' angle?

Then, before he could determine that question, a small, disgustingly _sympathetic_ voice mumbled behind him.

"M-Mike… I'm-"

"Get back in my room, Fitzgerald." the Afton growled low, facing away from his friend. No. Fuck everything, he wasn't in the mood for _this_ bullshit.

"But-"

" _ **GET THE FUCK BACK INTO MY ROOM BEFORE I BREAK YOUR GOD DAMN NECK."**_

The blond didn't need any more persuasion after that.

Michael quickly ignored the stab of guilt in his stomach when hearing Jeremy hurry away in terror. He knew deep, deep down it hadn't been fair, but unfortunately, the Afton really couldn't give a damn.

A part of Michael also couldn't believe that he wasn't absolutely destroying the place in a fit of rage, tearing apart the brat's room as payback, or sprinting off to follow the trail. He'd just been ready to run out amongst the trees with a bat, like a mental maniac... and yet, for some odd reason, right now, Michael Afton for once, could only find himself standing there, staring at the broken window... not sure what to do. Maybe it was just a gut feeling found himself having at the moment - telling him if he were to go out there, it'd somehow make everything ten times worse.

Michael couldn't believe he was actually admitting that.

Though, perhaps this was also merely the calm before the storm. It'd be a lot easier to get mad at Chirs if he were actually here, safe and sound.

Michael sniffed.

Well, ok, it'd be a lie to say the Afton _wasn't_ mad — hell, he felt fucking _livid,_ just… in a different way? Like, he didn't have many expectations for his little brother, but he'd honestly still expected better of him when it came to this.

Weird.

Michael ran a stressful hand through his hair, once again taking in his situation at full value. _Fuck_ , he suddenly realized. He was so screwed. Father would undoubtedly be pissed. Michael felt like he was practically a dead man. A dead who was about to wind up on the side of the -

Wait.

Why the hell was he thinking this?

Michael hadn't gone out because he realized his dad would get pissed… but why did he care? Why did Michael care what that asshole thought? What? Because he might get yelled at? Maybe Hit? Please. Michael fucking James Afton could take that. Yeah. _Yeah._ He didn't give a _damn_ what Father said or did to him. Not like it mattered to anyone. Michael could handle shit, so he was going to go out, follow the trail, so he could deal with the little bastard himself, then —

The front door opened.

Michael jumped, whirling around.

The next thing he knew, Father was there, running past him and skidding into the bathroom.

With Chris in his arms.

Forgetting about every previous thought, the teen followed, darting right up to the doorway.

Chris already had all his clothes taken off and was wrapped in a towel as Father furiously scrubbed him down, mopping up what looked to be gallons of mud, while at the same time, trying to get the boy warm and dried. Father then laid him down and raised the boy's legs (probably to get blood to his head) before putting an ear to his son's chest, listening. Michael felt his blood run cold, and his breathing hitch for a moment, the thought of Chris _not breathing_ entering his mind.

Right as the teen was about to fling himself to the unconscious child and possibly claw his way past the older man, Father let out a small sigh of relief. Confused, and barely holding himself back, Michael once again glanced at his little brother. The boy's chest was exposed, but what was important was that it was rising up and down in a calming rhythm, meaning Chris was clearly _breathing._

Michael all but fainted from relief, and had to hold onto the bathroom doorway for support. Chris was breathing. He was _alive._

Before Michael could again check on the brat himself, father stood up, with the unconscious boy in his arms. The teen felt his heart drop for a moment, as the fear of what Father would do or say after all that, despite his previous ego-trip. But the old man simply walked past his son without an ounce of recognition. Michael decided not to question it.

He then went into Chris's room and up to the boy's bed. Father took the towel off before gently placing him down at its center and covering his small body up with the bed's blanket.

It all happened so quickly that the teen wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. But since Father hadn't so much as acknowledge Michael's existence, he assumed at the very least, he hadn't done something wrong yet.

Michael's line of vision snapped back to Chris when the boy began to shift a bit, and his eyes actually opened; barely. The boy merely stared up at the man with a hazy, faraway look in his eyes, as if he thought he stood on another planet. After a moment, Chris's mouth moved, but Michael couldn't hear the words.

Father talked too, but in such a small whisper, it may as well have been just an exhale of air.

Some time or another, Chris nodded, and the old man immediately stood up, again walking past his elder son as if he didn't exist.

Michael poked his head in the room, staring at the dazed child, who didn't notice him (or, anything for that matter). A part of Michael — the chunk of him still burning with anger for the stunt the brat pulled — considered stomping in there, yanking Chris up to his face, and demand why — _why_ was he so bloody idiotic? Why did he do these things? Why? _Why?_

" _Cough cough."_

But when the teen heard that sound — god, the small, pitifully _pathetic_ noise — then only to see his brother letting out a stream of weak coughs... Michael felt… weird. Just weird. Something inside the teen wouldn't let him do any of that crap. He couldn't. He just... _couldn't_. He also couldn't say what was making him suddenly feel like a blanket soaked in depressing rain, unable to act out of anger when hearing that tiny hack of tiny lungs pushing out air, but the feeling wouldn't dry away.

Father then returned, with a glass of water in hand. He went back to the boy, holding it up to Chris' lips, helping him to sip down the glass.

It was an incredibly slow process, but once finished, they seemed to exchange more words. Father had his large, calloused hand cupped around Chris' face, tenderly rubbing it in a way that made it seem like the weak boy was the most precious treasure in the world. He spoke with the gentleness of a comforting breeze grazing through the grass on a spring day. Bloody… Michael hadn't seen him like this since…

The teen turned away, suddenly unable to watch. Well, _this_ feeling was familiar. He wouldn't admit it or even say the word, but despite his wants, it was there. The bitter wondering, the curt questions, as he stood there and wondered... Why? Why was Father only like this to… well now _Chris,_ but the point still stood. Had Michael really been _that_ horrible of a child? Too brash? Had he'd not been perfect enough? Born at the right time? What? What had he done wrong?

And what had his siblings done right?

The teen scoffed, unthinkingly digging his nails into his arms as he _loathed_ his jackass self for feeling these things. Against his better judgment and unsure of what else to do, Michael again peeked back in, beholding the same scene as before, except now, Chris lay fast asleep, looking more peaceful than he ever had in his entire life. Father sighed another release of relief. Still stroking the boy's dark hair, the old man then gently began to lean down. Confusion sank into Michael's current feelings. Was he going to again whisper again or something?

Well, he didn't have to ponder much longer, because the old man pressed his lips softly onto the boy's forehead.

A kiss. A fucking. Kiss. A soft, gentle, fatherly show of love.

Michael gawked.

Had Father even kissed Elizabeth before?

Before Michael could recall, William Afton then stood up, smoothing Chris' hair out one final time before heading out of his room.

However, he'd ignored Michael so many times that the teen hadn't prepared for what the older man did next.

Without so-much as making eye-contact, and as casually as putting on a shirt, William seized Michael's arm, then _yanked -_ the bastard fucking tugged the teen's arm _so hard,_ that for a split second, Michael thought it'd been dislocated.

" _WHAT THE HELL?!"_ he screeched without thinking, the previous sappy thoughts yanked out of him as well because god _damn it_ the whiplash _hurt._ Father's hands felt like rough ropes, with the other end being tied to a sudden, on-going bus. But despite his obvious protests, Father keeps walking forward calmly, dragging a screaming Michael behind him as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

The journey wasn't far; just to the master bedroom, where the old man then promptly flung his son onto the floor like a ragdoll. Michael almost immediately sat up, that familiar rage returning and fueling him, driving out the pain. He stared up venomously.

" _What. The actual_ _ **fucking hell**_ _on Earth is your -"_

"Take off your shirt."

Silence.

The spiteful words died on Michael's tongue. He looked up, confused. "What?"

"Take off your damn shirt or I'll do it for you."

The bloody hell? Why would he -

He ask...

Oh.

_Oh._

Michael continued to stare up, the anger evaporating so fast he almost couldn't handle it, only to be immediately be replaced with a sudden dread of realization. He looked desperately for any signs of a cruel joke - a way to make him piss himself - but the Afton teen saw _nothing_ but stone, cold rage.

" _Why?"_ he whispered against his better judgment. Michael couldn't remember the last time his voice had been this small.

William merely shrugged. "There's a first time for everything. I don't see why this should be any different from when she hurt you, anyway. You were never bothered by it then, so it shouldn't be different now. Besides, you always act like it's me who did it."

Michael could only stare. He could only stare in horror at those dark blue eyes. Dull but sharp sapphires which held no pity. No remorse or even a hint of mercy, of compromising. They just had one need, one want.

To watch him suffer.

"Are you going to take off your shirt or not?" his voice was so _calm._

Michael's gaze shifted blankly to the ground as he began to pull his grey shirt over his head. Nowhere. There was nowhere to go. And even if Michael somehow got away and down to the station - what then? Where would he go, be sent to? What about Chris? Would they be separated?

Father began to undo his belt. He then asked more off-handedly than a parent asking a kid about how their day at school went - "I assume you didn't call the police?"

Michael set the shirt down, shaking his head.

He nodded. "I didn't think so."

To be honest, the teen had always imagined this day would come sooner or later, though he always thought he'd be more badass about it. That he'd fight. Try to escape, even if he'd lose. Well, look how fucking pathetic he was in the moment. Funny how he'd thought that just minutes earlier, huh? Michael's body felt nothing but frozen. His mind had abruptly gone blank, something Michael wasn't used to. Nothing. He _felt_ _ **nothing.**_ It was as if rather than fight off the man in front of him, something deep inside was trying to fight off the thirteen-year-old from feeling anything. Nevertheless, as Father stepped over to Michael, he could feel his muscles tense up for what they knew was about to come.

Father now held his belt in both hands, and stood right before his kneeling, bare-backed son, towering over the teen like a great redwood. Michael braced himself.

However, the pain didn't come. Instead, the old man leaned down to his son's level. He cupped Michael's chin into one hand, forcing the teen to look at him. His next words were in nearly silent, snake-like hisses.

"Don't you even think about being angry, Michael James. I warned you. I warned you more times than you deserve. So remember - always remember - you brought this on yourself, and you have _no one_ to blame but yourself."

Michael's only response was a stare.

"Not one scream, do you understand? Not _one._ You sit here and take what you deserve silently."

A pause, if only for a heartbeat.

Michael nodded.

The corners of the old man's mouth rose.

"Bullshit, Michael. If you haven't gotten rid of that look in your eyes, when we're done, you can spend the night outside."

Michael didn't so much as let out a grunt.

* * *

Just a few doors away, Chris slept dreamless for the first time in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I just wanna say, just in case it wasn't clear, that what William's gonna do to Michael is NOTHING SEXUAL. AT ALL. 
> 
> Thank you and have a great day!


	27. In Bed With a Bastard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shocked this came out, in like, less than a week? Ha. Yeah, me too.

_“Are you sure?”_

_“Positive, Miss Schmidt.”_

_Amelia immediately keeled over, a hollow breath escaping her lungs despite the air seeming to thicken. She shook her head in disbelief, at first not believing what she’d been told. The woman had been wary when her cycle failed to come, and since it was two weeks before one could get an answer, Amelia made an appointment almost as soon as the thought crossed her mind._

_A party. One party. One short night. Just a little celebration for all the new college students. William Afton had been her date — a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired handsome man, with a brain to match. Amelia would be lying if she said the opportunity hadn’t excited her, since William Afton hardly -- if ever -- dated. He was either by himself writing in a notebook, in some sort of lab, or with his best friend, the American transfer, Henry Emily. Though, it could be argued that only made him more desirable to the other girls, since it gave the Afton an almost mysterious aura that followed him everywhere he went. Strange how he was the exception compared to the other quiet boys. Then again, while it was true William didn’t talk all that much, when he did, it was as if the gentleman suddenly had the charms of a male siren, and could draw in any nearby sailor to his rock, no matter who they were._

_So yes, Amelia had been excited when he asked her of all people to the dance. She was already one of the few girls he actually talked to -- ever since highschool. “Amelia Schmidt’s,” she’d hear them say, “The only girl who can get that stone wall to crack.” Perhaps it was childish, since she had a feeling he only decided to go because Henry wouldn’t stop bothering the guy about it. William hadn’t even gone to the senior’s celebration. Nevertheless, he still acted nothing less than a gentleman when the tall brunette picked the ginger up from her home. They had a casual conversation, talked about their interests and plans for the future, then headed off._

_Things had been going great — fun even._

_Perhaps a little_ **_too_ ** _fun._

 _Long story short, the punch had been spiked. Just about everyone knew, of course, but hardly anyone cared. And after all her hard work, the ginger-haired woman thought she’d deserved just_ **_one_ ** _little sip. Same with William._

 _Amelia hadn’t meant to. She_ **_really_ ** _didn’t mean to get drunk, but it’d been too late. After fits of giggling and sloppy dancing, the rest of the night was a blur in Amelia’s mind, but some time or another, they’d both ended up racing back to her date’s house in their drunken state, and in a blink, both lay unclothed atop of William’s bed._

_Nobody else knew, but it didn’t take away from the utter shame and embarrassment filled bags that now sat atop the ginger’s shoulders._

_It was just once._ **_One time._ ** _Amelia’s_ **_first_ ** _time. That’s how good of a girl she’d always been. Abstinence, abstinence, abstinence, the one word, her parent’s special word, the warning that had been sewn into each day of her life. Amelia had always followed it, even when she’d gotten tipsy underneath their noses._

 _Except for that_ **_one_ ** _short night._

_This wasn’t fair._

_“Miss Schmidt?” the doctor’s soft voice cut through her spiraling thoughts._

_Her head snapped back up._

_“Is there anything else, Miss?”_

_Amelia didn’t answer, and instead looked the doctor straight in the eye, as if his eyes could tell the woman a different answer._

_They told her the same thing._

_So Amelia simply shook her head, somehow managing to put on an artificial smile. “No, doctor.” She then stood up, heading towards the door. “Thank you for your time.”_

_“Good luck,” Amelia heard him say before she headed out._

_The ginger didn’t begin crying until she made it to her car, then proceeded to immediately slam her head smack against the front of the wheel as sobs escaped her mouth._

_What? What on Earth was she going to tell her parents? Her friends?_

_What would she tell William?_

* * *

Jeremy was scared. He’d heard screaming — _Mike_ screaming out of nowhere. It’d only been for a moment, just an angry “What the hell?” — yet ten times more intense than when he’d previously gotten pissed. A second later, another door slamming, then practically silence, at least, Jeremy couldn’t pick up much more noise. His line of hearing had been blocked out by two layers of doors. The blond had attempted to strain his hearing further, but found himself unable to pick up any defining sounds.

That somehow terrified him more than if he’d heard more yelling. But after that one angry yell, it had all gone eerily silent, as if he now sat in a horror movie, waiting for the killer to creek open the door. 

But what really terrified the blond most was that he had no idea what had happened to Mike, and his mind constantly went back and forth on what would be the right thing to do.

_Michael literally roared. He screamed at the top of his lungs for me to come back in here._

_Coward. This is your best friend, right? And you’re going to just sit here and do nothing?_

_What am I supposed to do? There has to be a good reason why Mike wouldn’t want his dad to find me. It’d just get him in trouble._

_Sounds like he’s already in trouble, asshole._

_But…_

Jeremy really couldn’t find much to argue with there. Michael had told him to stay here no matter what happened. But the blond had already broken that rule, and he’d been able to keep his angry friend from running off into the dead of night during a storm.

_But William’s most likely here now._

What would be the worst thing a grieving, single father would do to his remaining children? Perhaps Jeremy would be able to explain their situation, and how his son had been selfless enough to help a guy out. William had friends (eh…?), so surely he’d understand.

_You’re acting like Mike’s actually said a nice thing about him._

Jeremy looked back at his memories to prove the little voice wrong.

Nothing came up. 

Ok, but in the end, the blond would rather get chewed out by William Afton, knowing that Mike was alright, than waiting all night, only for no one to show up. And if something, like, _really really bad_ did happen, then the blond would never forgive himself. Hell, now that he thought about it rationally (as he preferred), William had probably come back (Jeremy prayed with Chris), and as most parents did, got mad at the oldest for “allowing” something bad to happen to the younger. 

_A lecture,_ he attempted to convince himself, a weary knot beginning to form. _He’s probably getting a stern talking to about responsibility._

Then why couldn’t Jeremy hear _any_ speaking? Were the doors that thick?

The tall blond shook his head, rattling out the nervous speculation. He’d been stalling enough. Mike could be in serious trouble because of _him._ Because Jeremy had distracted him from what he was told to do. Blame himself. Take responsibility. Jeremy had to let William know this was all his fault, he was sorry, and some way he was gonna make it up to him.

_You’re actually gonna tell him sorry for being the cause of a single father losing another kid?_

The blond felt his eyes widen, his heart skipping a beat.

He hadn’t thought of that.

That sudden but harsh sentence, combined with the one question which had popped into his mind, which had popped into his brain just as he felt himself gaining the confidence to go out there on Michael’s behalf, caused it all to come crashing down.

That little whisper cut deep, with each syllable slashing straight through his chest like a blade. It all correlated with the way his breathing began to exhilarate, same with the pounding heart. How the tip of his foot and fingers began drumming frantically against the carpet in a non-existent rhythm. Chris. God damn it how could he have forgotten about him so fast?

He had to not only make sure his friend was alright, but Chris too.

Without thinking, the blond hurriedly crawled out from under the desk, scrambling his way to the door. Chris had to be alright. Jeremy didn’t know him all that well. He really didn’t -- but he couldn’t handle that on his conscience. So yeah, he was just gonna make sure by casually going out there and ask -

The door opened.

Jeremy froze.

The door closed.

He heard the _click_ of a lock.

Then the lights flickered on. 

Michael stood there, blue gaze on the blond, who stood suspended mid-crawl at the floor. 

Jeremy stared back.

They seemed to stare at each other for a whole eternity, as if that was all they knew what to do around one another. At the same time, Jeremy’s mind suddenly screeched to a halt, right before he felt himself begin to twitch as new assumptions sprung into his mind.

_Oh god. Oh god, he knows I was gonna leave. What do I say? Say something Fitzgerald, say something to him!_

Jeremy felt his mouth open, but nothing more than a dry exhale of air came out.

The world then seemed to come back to life, since the brunette finally did something.

Though probably the last thing the exasperated teen expected.

Jeremy didn’t think his friend was heartless, but in the sudden moment of stress, he’d honestly expected Michael to yell at him for not listening. Ask him why the hell was he jeopardizing their plan. Being willing to get caught. Accuse Jeremy of wanting to get him into trouble. 

Michael did none of those things.

Instead, the brunette looked away, sighed like a tired parent, then traipsed right past the blond, head down with his hands in his pockets.

Jeremy simply sat there for a moment, more than slightly floored.

“You gonna come to bed or not?”

“H-huh?” The blond felt himself flinch as he flipped around, turning in order to face his friend, for once not looking down on him.

Michael repeated his words, again with a blank expression, not at all suited for his face. “I don’t really see anywhere else you can sleep.” The blond felt his jaw drop, not believing what he was hearing. And he’d said it so _casually._

“Will you turn the light off?” he then asked. 

Still feeling like his mind was overcooked, the blond did what he was requested to do without much thought, soon fumbling with the damn thing as if his fingers had no bones. At the same time, Michael flicked on his nightstand lamp, causing a soft yellow glow to illuminate the room. 

Jeremy slowly inched over while fiddling with his hands, about to say something.

That is, until he looked up, and got a good look at his friend’s face, abruptly finding himself at a loss for words. 

Jeremy felt a large lump form in his throat at the sight.

In typical Michael manner, he was definitely doing his best to appear not weak, or at least pathetic, but… in an unusual way. A way Jeremy found it hard to describe. The brunette sat at the edge of his bed, staring flatly down at his shaking -- his _trembling_ hands -- as if his stare alone would get those bone-white fists to stop. The yellow light shined eerily across his face, yet that didn’t at all take away from how pale the teen’s skin appeared. That, combined with the luminescent glow, almost made him appear ghostly, or undead.

But what was really the worst? 

What really made Jeremy’s skin crawl? 

His breathing to come to a sudden stop? 

Made him scared shitless for what had happened to his friend?

It was rather simple.

Empty.

Michael looked empty.

There was no fight. No single spark of fire in those deep sapphire eyes that always looked as though they could melt steel ( _*cough cough*_ and his heart _*cough cough*_ ). It wasn’t even a _tired_ look, rather, the deadest look Jeremy had ever seen on a person, as the brunette stared down lifelessly at trembling hands -- the only source of life left of him.

Jeremy could only stare. Stare in disbelief. Stare and wonder what had transpired, since, at that moment, it’d felt as though his throat had suddenly swollen up.

Michael interrupted the silence -- though he didn’t even look up. The voice he used to speak was layered thickly with an uncannily monotone quality. 

“Are you planning on sleeping there, standing up?” Even his snippy remarks had none of that “Michael Afton” edge to them.

“I-I… y-you…” Jeremy shook his head, hardly able to ask the next question. “W-why? Y-You… I didn’t think you’d… be ok with… the idea,” he argued weakly.

The brunette merely shrugged, not even annoyed with the stuttering. “Whatever. I guess not at first. I just don’t really care right now. I locked the door, so sleep wherever I guess.” 

Alright, this was too much, and the blond didn’t know how much more he could take. Jeremy felt as though he’d just entered some kind of twisted, alternate dimension.

“What happened?”

Jeremy felt his heart leap when he saw that the question gained an actual reaction from his usually brash friend -- though small. That familiar, passionate spark flickered across his dark eyes, if only for a moment. Jeremy almost couldn’t believe he was _relieved_ seeing the Afton beginning to look annoyed.

The momentary joy ended once the other spoke. 

“Nothing, Fitzgerald,” Michael reassured bitterly through gritted teeth. “Father came back with the little man and -- “

The blond all but gasped.

_Chris._

“Is he alright?” he found himself blurting out.

Mike grimaced.

_Oh god. Oh please. Please no… nonono… he can’t be--_

“Yeah, he’s fine.”

Jeremy didn’t know how he avoided fainting from relief. Why did Mike have to nearly give him a heart attack by making that pensive face?

“Well, uh…” he queried awkwardly, “D-do you know what happened? Uh… why he ran off?”

“No.”

Silence.

“A-anything else --”

_“No.”_

The blond felt his nostrils flare, the dismissal sparking against a wrong edge with him. “Mike, that’s bullshit.”

A deadpanned glare locked onto grey eyes. 

“I don’t give a rat’s ass if you believe me. I’m bloody tired as all hell right now, so I’m going to bed. Just stay on that side, be quiet, and _don’t_ touch me,” the brunette ordered, gesturing to the bed’s other edge as if Jeremy had already agreed to sleeping on the cushioned surface.

With that, Jeremy couldn’t help his next thoughts as he looked down, hidden in his own mind.

His bed.

Jeremy. 

Sleeping on Michael’s bed.

With him.

Damn it, this should’ve been a happier night.

Jeremy again shook his head for a brief moment, snapping himself out of the self-centered, lustful thoughts. Not now. He shouldn’t be focusing on that now of all times. Whatever was happening, Michael needed a friend, not a pining crush.

But when the blond looked back, Michael (without bothering to change out of his grey shirt and jeans), already lay in bed under the covers, back away from Jeremy as he scooted to the very edge of the bed. The talking message was clear.

Jeremy sighed. _Fine… it is late…_ The blond then let out a long yawn just as it dawned on him how tired he actually was, just as his previous adrenaline rush began to rapidly plummet. Yeah, while even Jeremy could admit he was starting to get sick of allowing stubborn Mike to dismiss every single problem the blond wanted to help with, Jeremy also knew he wouldn’t have the energy to argue, as frustrated as that made him. Plus, a screaming fight could start, and since Mike was already in here, alive and (not exactly) well, the blond suddenly no longer felt the need to face his friend’s father. He still felt anxious as all hell, but he could force his worries to wait until morning.

Right. The morning. Time to sleep now.

Jeremy looked down at the floor, and couldn’t help but frown in an unappealing way. Usually, he wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor -- hell, he’d slept on hardwood plenty of times, yet now, something deep in the blond’s ribcage was beginning to pump rapidly, refusing to let him go anywhere that wasn’t on the bed.

With Michael.

God damn it. 

So, as quietly and non-awkwardly as he could (as the muscle in his chest throbbed harder each second, feeling like any minute it’d burst from his chest), the blond carefully pulled the blanket up (only his half of course) before squirming his way under the sheets like a worm. Throughout it all, Mike said nothing.

When Jeremy finally lay down under the covers, he took a moment to regain his chain of breathing. He _still_ couldn’t help but turn onto his side, towards the friend who faced away from him. Jeremy didn’t know why. He knew logically that (even though the lamp was still on) the brunette was probably already asleep, but… he also simply hoped naively that maybe the Afton was just deciding to be quiet for a bit, perhaps wondering what would be the right thing to say.

Unrealistic? Ha, yeah.

He sighed, turning away and --

Jeremy stopped, his eyes catching something.

He turned back, then frowned, squinting.

What was that?

Making sure the brunette wouldn’t react, the blond inched closer a bit closer so he could get a better look. And yeah, Jeremy hadn’t been seeing things.

It was nearly unnoticeable, with it just _barely_ sticking out from the top of his shirt where luckily, his blanket didn’t cover the patch of skin, where it sat right under the brunette’s neck on his upper back.

Some kind of mark. Red and slightly inflated. But again, it was just barely visible, so Jeremy found it impossible to determine what kind of mark it was; some kind of rash? A burn? A spot that itched too much?

The blond couldn’t explain how he was sure, but for some reason, he _knew_ that none of those answers were right.

How long had it been there? And did Michael have more?

Jeremy knew Mike would most likely get pissed or at least pretty defensive (though he couldn’t be sure, since his friend felt like more of a hollow husk, which made his heart ache) if he dared asked about it, or attempted to see a full-fledged image of his back. 

_But_ , he found himself arguing, heart racing, _it’d just be one little peeks. Just to see if there were more of those red marks._

The blond then silently snaked his hand out from the sheets, hesitantly reaching to pull up more of his shirt, just to see if --

The lamplight flickered off.

The room went pitch black.

Then -- 

“I set my alarm for six-thirty. We’ll leave as soon as it goes off.” Well, apparently he _hadn’t_ fallen asleep. Jeremy supposed he only kept the light on until he thought his friend was fully in bed.

The blond blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to the sudden pitch change. It took all he had not to groan aloud for the perfectly bad timing.

“Alright…” he then sighed, finally admitting defeat. _You can wait,_ he told himself. Light was just one dream away. He closed his eyes, trying his best to relax his fast-paced breathing.

It took awhile for the blond to actually fall asleep. He hated how the thought, _Oh my god, oh my god oh my god I’m in Michael’s bed_ **_with_ ** _Michael,_ continually ruminated back up to his mind, as if he were the protagonist of some kind of corny romcom. This _was not_ a big deal, he told himself over and over again, as he managed to totally, 100% of the time, ignore how the sheets smelt like Michael too. How the brazen brunette lay just a couple feet away. That Jeremy could pick up his rhythmic breathing going in and out, like a small whistle. Speaking of Mike, the brunette was simply being nice, letting his friend sleep on something comfortable. Yeah, he could be a grump, but Jeremy saw that goodness in him.

He internally cringed. That sounded cliche as hell too.

 _Though,_ Jeremy supposed, at the end of the day, the blond was just glad that the two Afton brothers were alive and not sick, especially Chris. Again, he was still worried about the red mark he saw on his pal’s back, but Jeremy would be able to corner Mike about it tomorrow. 

* * *

If Jeremy were offered a million dollars, a speed car, plus a free trip to Paris, traveled by yacht, he still wouldn’t be able to answer how in the ever-loving hell he managed to _not_ scream when he woke up the next morning.

Jeremy didn’t know when, why, or especially _how_ it happened. The planets and Moon and Sun aligning seemed more plausible to him, or hell, even the Second Coming of Christ happening at his doorstep would've garnered less of a reaction.

And no. None of this was hyperbolic.

When the blond gained a sense of consciousness, he first noticed how significantly warmer he felt, and that there was some kind of weird _embrace_ around nearly his entire body. That was weird. Did he have another blanket around him? But when would he have even gotten one? And why did it feel so _tight?_

Feeling a need to find out the answer, Jeremy grunted, blearily blinking his eyes open. Even though he couldn’t see his surroundings yet, the blond knew where he lay. Ah. Right. He’d fallen asleep in Mike’s room.

Jeremy frowned, his line of sight and mind still hazy. Huh. He could suddenly make out the brunette’s breathing better. _A lot_ better.

The blond’s confusion only rose when his vision finally cleared, and the first thing that came into his line of vision was sparrow, feather-like tufts, resting right under his nose.

His eyes widened.

_What the --_

It was that exact moment where Jeremy realized, to his absolute horror(?) and poor, overworked heart…

It certainly wasn’t a blanket wrapped around his body.

It was Mike.

_His_ Mike _._

Michael _“Don’t Touch Me”_ James Afton.

That Mike.

He lay there. Not just _right next_ to Jeremy. Not simply prodded up against him because he was a rowdy sleeper. Or even just a single, limp arm holding onto the blond’s chest, which would’ve been more than enough to make him break out into a cold sweat, combined with the breathing of a sick dog with asthma.

No.

God, where to even begin?

Well, first off, the brunette had practically _burrowed_ himself into the tall blond, head nestled snugly onto Jeremy’s chest (how his stammering heart beating repeatedly like a tympany, failed to wake Mike up was _beyond_ him). He had an arm thrown over the blond’s mid-torso, while the other clutched onto Jeremy’s right arm as if Mike were afraid he’d fall to his death if he let go. 

Clutching.

Mike. Holding Jeremy of all people, as if the brunette had never experienced a hug in his life.

Finally, the sleeping boy had an entire leg thrown completely over Jeremy’s lower half, which caused all _sorts_ of things to rush through him in a downward spiral. 

Now, back to how the poor, tall, awkward blond felt in this predicament.

Jeremy felt as though he was being cradled by a huge koala.

Jeremy felt like he was some kind of stuffed animal a kid never wanted to lose.

As if Mike thought clinging to Jeremy was the one thing keeping him from falling off the face of the Earth.

Hugged by someone who’d been craving some kind of intimacy their whole life without even knowing it, only for them to go to the absolute motherfucking _extreme_ when they finally got the chance.

That kind of embrace.

When what was actually taking place sunk in, when the lanky boy fully grasped that he indeed, still sat in his world, that this _wasn’t_ a damn puberty dream --

Without thinking, he opened his mouth to scream, because holy hell, this _could not_ be real life.

But no sound came out.

The only thing that did manage to squirm out of him was the air from his lungs.

In those few seconds, Jeremy already felt drenched with sweat, as yes, who wouldn’t expect this - the blond’s respiratory system started going nuts. Pink lungs began to expand and deflate in a way far out of their owner’s control, like an excited three-year-old who couldn’t stop pounding their feet on a bellow.

Jeremy knew he needed to calm down. The blond was not about to allow himself to fall into a fit of hysteria because of _this_ of all things. 

_Ok, ok, ok Fitzgerald,_ he internally told himself, still breathing like a madman. _This isn’t that weird. Not at all. Yes. Right. Not at all awkward._

At that moment, Michael then decided to nuzzle his head against the petrified teen’s chest, as well as tighten his embrace. 

Jeremy all but melted, convinced he was actually about to die.

Ok, so the self reassurances weren’t helping to calm his heart or lungs. Alright. That was fine. _Fine,_ he thought loopily _._ There were other options! Holding back a laugh of madness, the blond then decided an attempt to shift his focus on what he actually enjoyed at the moment.

_Make a list. Make a three-part list of good things at the moment if things seem terrible._

Ok. Yes. He could do that. 

_One: I’m still alive and got a surprisingly good night's sleep._

Yeah. Ok. That was a good one. He felt his chest begin to slow down.

_Two: The atmosphere is pretty calm… yeah, a lot better than last night._

Although the room was still mostly dark, the small amount of light that did pour in gave the otherwise meek bedroom a strangely calming aura. Jeremy noticed the little dust particles floating about, glistening like little specks of glitter whenever once drifted through the dim beacons. The room was mostly grey in color, yet it suddenly didn’t make it look bleak or sad; rather, it gave off the feeling of a cool, clouded day, where the ground lay shaded, but not brisk or iced with frost. Just a simple day where one could lay out on soft grass in a meadow. 

Well, that made two.

The blond looked down. 

_Three…_

He felt soft hair right beneath his chin, a head of feathers the blond wanted to play with between his fingers, before running his whole hand through to explore. A heartbeat, strumming a wordless yet beautiful ballad of peace, serenity, and a stillness, unlike that any kind, one a composer _wished_ they'd be able to hear. Soft Arms and legs enclosed around him tightly like a velvet ribbon tied perfectly to a gift, not only wrapped around a young, teen’s frame, but his heart too.

Jeremy felt his lips curve into a small smile. 

_Mike looks nice._

Jeremy couldn’t recall ever seeing his friend look this tranquil. Not happy, or sad, or even the chilling, dead-eyed face of someone who’d had a piece of their soul taken away either, just… 

Calm.

Jeremy then realized that some time through his list, he’d settled down, his breathing now nearly identical to the boy he lay with. The blond couldn’t believe he’d nearly flipped out over _this._ How could it possibly make him upset?

Jeremy didn't want this to end. Ever. Because for a moment, it didn’t feel as though there was anything wrong. It made him feel as though last night hadn’t occurred, that the blond hadn’t been hiding from a strict parent, or that he still couldn’t get caught. Like he could just forget about it all.

He knew that kind of thinking was naive. 

He also knew that Mike’s alarm would go off, and the Afton would wake up to the two of them snuggling. Jeremy wasn’t sure what would happen exactly, but it was hard for him to imagine a scenario in which Mike didn’t get upset in some way, and Jeremy didn’t want to see the brunette get mad at him, or himself. And the mere thought of Mike misinterpreting what was going on between the two of them, or figuring out how Jeremy felt, thus potentially risking their entire friendship?

That was enough for the blond (with an aching heart) to make up his mind.

So, as slowly and carefully as possible, Jeremy began to slip out of his friend’s grasp. It wasn’t easy. If Jeremy moved too much, Mike would let out a small _“Nuuuhh…”_ and tighten his death-grip, which always caused the blond’s heart to skip a beat.

 _This is for the best,_ Jeremy told himself over and over and over again.

But eventually, and by some miracle (though it sure didn’t feel like one), Jeremy managed to wiggle his way off the bed and onto the floor, ruining his chances of more rest. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep anyways. 

Jeremy’s split guilt only grew when he stood up and saw that Mike's face had twisted into that of confusion and fear as his arms and legs clasped onto nothing. He let out noises of quiet, but woeful grunts, as if he were in distress.

Jeremy began to put on his windbreaker and sneakers as a way to distract himself from the overwhelming guilt that began to weigh down heavily on his shoulders. 

Maybe… maybe he should have --

**_BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP_ **

Jeremy flinched as the horrid noise shattered the relaxing scenery he’d created in his mind. Mike stopped stirring, his eyes snapping open. He almost seemed to flail for a second, as if not knowing where he was, but almost immediately jerked to a stop once he saw his houseguest. 

“Oh,” he stated drowsily, seeing that Jeremy was already up. “How long have you been awake?”

“O-oh… uh…” Crap crap crap. He hadn’t at all thought about what he would say once he’d woken up! And Mike definitely didn’t seem to be aware of what he’d done in his sleep. Well then, Jeremy just had to act like it didn’t happen.

He let out an awkward chuckle. “Not long. Not long at all.”

Missing the obvious discomfort the other teen displayed, Mike simply nodded, rubbing at his eye. “Well, that’s good. Are you ready to leave?”

“Hm? Oh. _Yep._ Never been more ready for anything.” 

Michael seemed to pick up on the awkwardness, since he glanced at the shaky blond with a puzzled expression.

_Oh god. Stop sweating. Stop sweating, stop sweating!_

Thankfully, the Afton didn’t question any further and merely shrugged, brushing it off. “Alright, mate. Just let me get some shoes and a jacket on.”

 _“O-ok,’_ he succeeded in slipping out in a voice one octave higher.

Mike began to slip out of his bed and -- Oh _god damn it all! --_ Jeremy had to look away when the brunette began to nonchalantly run a hand through his dark hair in an attempt to smooth out his mess of non-curls.

Jeremy made a mental note to make sure that the first thing he did once he got home, was to take a long cold shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pfft. No. I'm not throwing darts at the most common slash tags to see what I'll do next. Never.
> 
> Also, you may have noticed, but I've upped the rating. I think this chapter makes it obvious why.


End file.
